A Son of Olde England, BY JORDRE
by Jake Crepeau
Summary: The war is over, with Germany the winner. Whatever will Newkirk do now? ‘Hogan and the General’ AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is set in the same AU as the 'Hogan and the General' stories – where Germany won the war.

Disclaimer: _Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…._ Any and all mistakes are strictly my own, made out of ignorance, not malicious intent. Unfortunately, London is _terra incognita_ to me. (blank map, _**Here there be Dragons**__…_) So I left the locales' descriptions vague intentionally. Mavis' roommate was loosely modeled after an OC of Tuttle4077's; I tried to contact her, but she's out of touch, and I didn't want to wait 18 months to post this thing. Forgive, please??? (They do say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery…)

As for the rest, the general disclaimer applies: Don't own now, never will, no money made.

Enjoy. Jordre.

**A Son of Olde England**

**by**

**Jordre**

**Chapter 1**

_**October 28, 1942**_

_**Hammelburg, Germany**_

"Oh, guv'nor, I sure 'ope you know what you're doin'." The British corporal slumped against the wall of his cell, a pile of neatly written pages sitting on the table before him. "'Full disclosure,' the Colonel said," he muttered morosely. "'Old nothin' back; tell everything you remember.' Blimey, we'll all be shot for it." But they knew that could happen, had known it when they'd started it all. And they'd been caught, true enough.

But this Jerry general said he'd let the other guys live, so long as Hogan's men—the true saboteurs of the group—confessed all their sins. Newkirk could only pray that he'd told the truth. He'd even said that he'd let him and the others go along with the rest, because Hogan, like a _true_ guv'nor, had given him such detail. That, the Englishman _didn't_ believe, although it sounded great. No Jerry he'd ever heard of would do such a thing—except maybe old Schultzie, but he didn't want to see anyone hurt, ever. Still it sounded nice, and if it made going easier for the Colonel…

His musings were interrupted as his cell door was unlocked and cautiously opened. Two guards, armed with machine pistols, entered and stood to either side of the doorway, allowing a young blond _leutnant_ to enter behind them. Newkirk sat carefully still—no sense in getting shot before you had to, after all—and watched as the young German gathered up the papers.

"You are finished?" he asked Newkirk in fairly good English. "You had enough paper?"

"Blimey, I could've written a 'ole _book _on what you left me," Newkirk couldn't help protesting, but the _leutnant _laughed.

"Your Colonel has called for more paper twice now, and shows no signs of slowing yet," he confided to the corporal before him. "He has written very small, also. He has a small book he consults; I could make no sense of it when he showed it to me, though."

"Cor, 'e's got 'is _journal _with 'im?" Newkirk gasped, shocked.

"Ah, is that what it is? It is good that he has it, then. _Mein General_ will be pleased, and it will be better for the rest of you."

"Yeah, well, I'll believe _that _when I see it," Newkirk muttered under his breath and watched, otherwise silently, as the German removed his confession from the cell. To his surprise, they left the light on when they shut and locked the door, leaving him alone once more.

He'd expected to be interrogated anyway, expected that his written confession would just be the starting point, but he was left alone in his cell. He saw no one, except for the guards who brought his meals, and, to his great surprise, no one knocked him around. This was totally outside Newkirk's experience so far, and he couldn't decide whether to believe it or not. He could hear cells along his corridor being opened before and after his, but he never heard any cries of pain or sounds of distress from any of his fellow prisoners. They had tried calling to each other at first, but it was too hard to hear what anyone was trying to say, and none of them really wanted to anger their guards by making too much noise. At least they knew that they weren't truly alone in this place.

After he'd been there about a week, the guards came for him, waking Newkirk from an uneasy sleep. He was used to the routine by now: Two guards with guns came in and stood to either side of the doorway; then a third came in for—whatever. Most of the time, it was totally unnecessary, for Newkirk wasn't about to do anything to delay his mealtimes. This morning, though…Well, maybe it was a good thing that there were so many of them, for the third guard carried manacles and shackles with him.

"Up, Englander; face the wall," this guard snapped, his voice harsh to mask his nervousness. These were, after all, PAPA BEAR's men, and, as such, they were known to be very dangerous. No one would take any chances with them. And this Englander in particular was reported to have a hot temper, although none of the guards had had any trouble with him so far. But they were to be moved now.

It came as a revelation to Newkirk that the guards were actually _afraid_ of him. He couldn't help it; his ego puffed up like a gamecock, and a grin crossed his face—safe enough, since he was facing the wall. He winced, though, when the handcuffs were clamped on tightly.

They had the shackles on in no time then, and the guard was pushing him out into the corridor. There were a lot of guards out there, he saw, which worried him again until he saw the others being brought out of their cells too. All but the Colonel. "Where's Colonel 'Ogan?" he blurted without thinking.

"Be silent, _schwein!"_ the closest guard snarled, raising his rifle to club the insolent (but safely chained) Englander.

_«Nein!»_ The shout cut through the background noise, freezing the offending guard in place. «You will _not_ strike that Man for asking what all the Rest wish to know also.» The young _Leutnant_ walked into their midst, looking over the restrained men. He very carefully ignored the muttered curse from the small Frenchman as he stopped in front of Newkirk. «Rechain that Man's Hands in front of him,» he ordered, bringing unhappy looks to some of the guards' faces. «It is too long a Ride to transport him so.

«Have you fed them yet this Morning?»

Silence fell; none of the guards cared to admit this lack.

«I see. _Who _chose not to feed these Men? I am _sure _that mein General is going to ask.» Faces paled at this statement, but the _Leutnant_ snorted in disgust. «Never mind. Whoever is responsible can explain to General Mannheim if we miss the Train, but these Men _will_ be fed before they leave.» He switched languages and looked at the prisoners gathered in the hallway. "I am _Leutnant _Weber, aide to General Mannheim. _If _you coöperate, you will in a civilized manner be treated, despite what you may believe. _Mein General_ does not approve of abuse of power or privilege. So if you will go _mit _your guards in an orderly manner, we may get you fed before _hier_ you leave. There is space on the morning train to Düsseldorf. I recommend that you miss it not, because a long, miserable trip by truck it would be.

"You go to a new camp there—built _für _those like you—gathered there you will all be, _für_ processing _für_ work and release. This is Stalag XVI—good buildings _für _you there will be.

"Your Colonel Hogan _mit_ you will not be; he is to Berlin already left, for trial." Very carefully Weber ignored the assorted cringes as he mangled his English; at least he knew that he was understandable. He watched as the men were moved out, but stopped the English corporal before he could joint his fellows. "I have your records _and_ your confession read, Corporal Newkirk," Weber explained before holding out his hand. "Be so good your lock-pick to give me—it was not listed as those things on you found. I will to you return it, when it is a temptation no more."

Disbelief in his eyes, Newkirk realized that this German wouldn't let him go with the others until he'd given up his pick. The longer he delayed, the less likely he'd be fed. With ill grace, he handed over the flexible sliver of metal, getting in return a polite _"Danke schön"_ from Weber. Only then were his guards allowed to guide him in his fellows' wake.

They just made the train. Newkirk could hear angry voices up near the engine as they were loaded aboard as quickly as they could be. Still, it took a while to get the nine of them, still manacled and shackled, up into the train. Newkirk had to smile as he heard LeBeau's excited jabbering up ahead of him. Carefully in French, true, but he could just imagine what their little French chef was calling the bloody Jerries. Despite what he'd always said about LeBeau's cooking, Newkirk admitted to himself that he'd miss it now. With a sigh he settled into the seat he was pointed to and resigned himself to a long trip.

Düsseldorf was over a hundred kilometers by road, and very poor roads some of them were. The train ride, while smoother and warmer, would be over double that, although perhaps a bit faster. _If _all went well, it would be a four- to five-hour ride, due to some of the grades they'd have to go up.

Of course there were delays. A rockslide blocked one tunnel, a loose track was found elsewhere, so it was late afternoon before they finally reached Düsseldorf and the trucks waiting at the station to take them the final leg to their new "home." Newkirk was hungry, tired, and grouchy—they all were, even their guards. Still, they made it into the trucks without incident, by some miracle.

They were silent in the truck, no one being inclined to chance their guards' tempers. The war might be over, but _they_ were still in the Germans' hands and would now have no recourse to the Protecting Power. Newkirk could just see his dreams for the future draining away into the dust of the rutted road they traveled.

It felt like they were bouncing to the ends of the earth, but at last the truck pulled up onto a smoother surface and drew to a stop. Newkirk heard the usual barking of orders, just as he had when he'd been brought to Luftstalag XIII. The big difference now, he realized, was that he and most of the men with him now understood what was being shouted. He knew, therefore, when they were to be unloaded from the truck; he and his companions had their few remaining possessions ready to offload. No one wanted to be pushed or pulled from a high military truck while wearing shackles. But the guards dropped the tailgate and stood back, allowing the prisoners to disembark at their own pace.

No one wasted any time. They straggled a short distance from the truck, forming up into a ragged line where their guards indicated. Then they waited; it was the same old thing, or so they expected. To Newkirk's surprise, they weren't kept waiting very long in the rapidly growing chill of oncoming evening. A very efficient-looking colonel of the _Heer_ came out onto the porch of the _Kommandantur,_ still buttoning his greatcoat against the chill. He stopped to look them over momentarily, then nodded.

"You will be taken to Medical for your inprocessing, since you are so late getting _hier,"_ he announced briefly. "It is cold, so I will make this short. I am _Oberst_ Rudolph Ritter, _Kommandant_ of Stalag XVI. This camp was built expressly to gather British and Commonwealth troops and hold them until they can be outprocessed and sent back to their homelands. It is unfortunate, but those of you who are American-born will not be leaving here with the rest; repatriation has been denied you by your former government. You have no doubt heard this as rumor before; now I tell you that it is official. Something will be worked out; you will _not_ just be shot out of hand, as rumor has _also_ said.

"You are all considered 'special' prisoners; as such, you will be assigned bunks in a particular barracks-building. Unlike the others here, you will not be allowed to change your quarters without receiving express permission from my office. You will be housed in Barracks 14; already others from your old camp and barracks are there, and in the barracks around yours.

"You will be given your evening meal once Medical is done with you, and then escorted to your barracks. It would be wiser if you did not cause your usual upheaval at Appell; escape is a useless waste of time, since you _are_ going to be going home---or have no homes to go back to.

"You will be in North Compound. The officer in charge of your compound is Major Vonhoff. Your barracks-guard is _Gefreiter_ Hermann. Do you have any questions?"

They stood there looking at him, shivering in the chill, for they had no heavy coats now; theirs had been confiscated when they'd been locked up in Hammelburg. Newkirk doubted that _anyone_ would say anything that might keep them out in the cold any longer than necessary. He was right; silence rose up from their line.

The _Oberst_ smiled and nodded, then ordered, «Bring them to Medical, _Feldwebel.»_ Then he turned and re-entered the building, leaving the prisoners to be moved to their next destination.

Same old thing, Newkirk thought as he sat down to some watery potato soup, black bread, and cheese. He shook his hair back from his eyes in irritation; even his uniform cap had been taken. Granted, his kit was badly worn after all his time as a prisoner, but it had all been serviceable. The German-issue work coverall felt odd—too loose; too baggy. And nowhere near warm enough. He barely kept his grumbling to himself; Louis was doing enough complaining for all of them. No need to irritate the guards at this point.

They had gotten to Medical only to be greeted with the order to turn out their kits and strip. Naturally. A delousing shower was always the first thing to happen upon arrival at a new camp, it seemed; no one trusted that the previous camp was clean, apparently. At least the water here had been warm. Then, with only towels around their waists, they'd been poked and prodded, thumped and listened to by several doctors; they'd been weighed and measured, and all scars had been recorded. They'd been photographed again for their records. Then they'd been given the coveralls and told that their old things would be washed before being returned.

And then, at last, they'd been herded over to this mess hall and their dinner. As much as he hated to admit it, the army rations that they'd been given at lunchtime had been 'way better, and he _hated_ those. Still, food was food, and these days he wasn't at all picky. It wasn't anything to linger over, though.

Apparently the others all agreed with him, for they were soon hustled out of the mess hall and across the open area before the _Kommandantur. _Before them rose a double set of gates---_serious _gates, set in a _serious_ double fence around their new compound. The barracks themselves were huge, compared to the small sixteen-man huts of old Stalag XIII, and there were four rows of the huge buildings, nine in each row. A large parade ground lay in front of them, between the barracks and the main gate. The buildings were new, with that raw look that said they'd not been there for more than a month or two at the most. Newkirk had no idea how many men could be crammed into each. It boggled the mind, how many men could be penned in here. Worse yet, there was another, similar but older compound visible to their west, and a second large cleared area to their east. Obviously the Jerries meant to hold all their "keepers" in one base camp. But smoke curled lazily from stovepipes, promising at least a bit of warmth.

The cold was growing as the sky darkened; it was looking to be a cold winter this year. They moved as fast as they could without running, wanting i_nside _as soon as possible, which seemed to suit their guards just fine. They were not allowed into any of the first row of barracks, but were directed between Barracks 5 and 6, towards the building in the second rank, labeled _Barracke_ 14. One guard moved ahead of their group to open the door at the near end of this building, telling Newkirk that this was, indeed, their destination.

Inside, he found a common area with an iron stove for heat. Beyond that were ten sets of bunks on both sides of a wide aisle---triple-deckers, here. Many still had rolled-up mattresses, indicating that they had no one's claim on them yet. Footlockers lined one side of each set of bunks for each man's possessions; sets of narrow clothes-presses lined the wall beside the windows.

"Nice an' 'omey, like," Newkirk muttered as he looked over the living area.

_"Ich heiße Gefreiter Hermann"_ a tall, burly guard announced, stepping away from the others. _"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"_ He looked around at his new charges and frowned slightly when two of them shook their heads. He sighed. "You vill _heir_ stay. You vill pick t'oze bunks from. You vill kurfew…" He made a face. «Eh. Translate for the Others,» he ordered in German, glaring at the men. «You are not allowed outside the Building after Dark. Lights-out is at 2100.

«Each building has its own Showers and Latrines; Times are posted in the Showers when the Water may be used. _Appell_ is at 0500, and again at 1700. You will choose your Bunks now; they are numbered, and so are the Footlockers and Clothes-Presses. You may not switch Bunks without Permission; any Man found in another's Bunk will get a Week in the Cooler. Breakfast is at 0730, Dinner is at 1200, Supper is after Evening Appell, at 1800. You will be back in your Barracks by 1900, or you risk being shot. Do not cross the Warning Wire, or you will be shot.» He paused to make sure that this last statement was translated correctly—his understanding of English far surpassed his spoken ability. «There is a Recreation Area, and Sporting Equipment is available for use, but must be signed out. You are responsible for your own Laundry; Tubs and Soap will be provided. If you do not maintain a minimal Level of Cleanliness, you will be sent to the Cooler.

«You will pick your Bunks now, from among these, and give me your Names.» The guard stepped back, prepared for a lengthy wait, determined not to lose his temper, but the prisoners surprised him.

Newkirk hopped up on the top bunk of one set and grinned. "I'll take this; I like t' be up 'igh. Name's Newkirk." He watched as the guard looked down the list that he carried and made a notation. There wasn't as much headroom here, he noted, but it would be livable. He was up higher, which was good. Carter was below him, in the bottom-most bunk. This was a good thing, as the young American sometimes rolled out of bed. Kinch took the bunk between them, causing the guard's eyebrows to rise in surprise. Newkirk just shook his head. They'd been through too much together to let a thing like skin color come between them. Kinch had proven himself too many times over. Things were different in here, anyway. Hogan's men weren't prejudiced, as too many on the outside were. Or like the bloody Krauts.

But his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of several young guards carrying stacks of blankets. Two for each of them, Newkirk saw with a grin: warm, thick, _new_ blankets. Better than they usually saw, unless the Swiss were due to inspect. Glancing around, he decided that the Krauts here didn't play that game, for every bunk he could see had good blankets on it. It seemed that he would have to defer judgment on this place until he could really see how things were.

If only Colonel Hogan were there with them.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

Time passed, and the news from Berlin was very bad. German newspapers were allowed into camp each day and translations read aloud by those prisoners who could read German. Hogan was the sensation of the day, him and his highly detailed confession. Most of the men in the compound discussed this at length, for they couldn't understand _why_ he'd rolled over and confessed everything so readily. _His_ men did nothing to try to explain, for they knew that he was giving his life for theirs. They were determined that his sacrifice not be in vain.

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Midmorning. Newkirk hunched outside in what sun there was, actually warm in the new coat he'd been issued by the Germans. That had surprised him; he'd never known Jerry to part with any more than they absolutely had to. Again, though, the war _was _over; he and the rest of the prisoners here represented a respectable work force. No doubt _that_ was why they were being treated so well.

Already Garlotti and Olsen, and two other men, had been taken out for "assignment," going to stay at a local farm as labor for the family that owned it. _Better them than me,_ Newkirk thought wryly. He was a city boy; farm work was definitely _not_ his cup of tea. Still he stood there, watching and waiting. Kinch and Baker had been taken out earlier, to see the _Kommandant,_ Hermann had said. Maybe, and maybe not; Newkirk knew that he'd worry until Jerry returned the two men safely, for some of the guards still seemed to want to push the two Negro sergeants around. Most tried to protect the two radiomen, however, most notably Langenscheidt.

That had been a surprise for Newkirk, seeing the young German corporal here. _Obergefreiter_ Langenscheidt had always been a quiet man; Newkirk had thought him rather timid among his fellows. Here, though, he didn't hesitate to stand between Hogan's men and trouble. It gave Newkirk a warm spot inside, knowing that someone was trying to look out for them.

Still, he worried about the two men until he saw them returning to the compound, along with about a dozen or so men from other barracks. Newkirk sighed, until he realized that the guards were staying with each group of prisoners when the larger group split up inside the gate. Langenscheidt, Newkirk saw, stayed with Kinch and Baker as they headed back to Barracks 14.

"What's up, mates?" Newkirk asked when the two radiomen drew close enough to hear without shouting.

Kinch looked at the Englishman, his dark eyes slightly troubled. "We're going out on assignment, Newkirk," he said, trying to hide his concern. "Baker and me, and a bunch of other guys, to repair the communications network in Belgium and northern France. The British bombers and the local resistance groups did a number on the telephone lines."

"An' you used to work for the telephone company, back in the States," Newkirk finished for him. It actually made sense, to use men already skilled in the needed task. "Better'n bein' grunt labor, mate. You know the job, at least."

"Yeah. And we'll have Langenscheidt with us," Baker cut in with a pleased grin.

Newkirk looked at Kinch. "Then what's wrong? You look a bit worried, Kinch."

"Nothing, really," the dark sergeant admitted. "I just kinda wanted to be here when we heard about the Colonel."

"You can't 'elp 'im, mate; best be seein' t' yourselves. That sounds like a decent gig."

"Oh, it is; we'll even be paid a bit for our time," Kinch hastened to assure his friend.

"I vill make sure they are vell, Newkirk," Langenscheidt spoke up unexpectedly. "I vill pick the rest ov the eskorts vith great care."

"You're in charge, then?" This surprised the British corporal, and concerned him. Langenscheidt's rank, as an _Obergefreiter,_ wasn't all that high.

"Oh, _ja,_ for Kinchloe and Baker. I am promoted to _Feldwebel_ for this," the young German announced with a big smile. _"Herr Oberst_ Ritter said that I go because Sergeants Kinchloe _und _Baker are known to me already. It iz a good thing, for all ov us. But they _muss_ pack; ve haf a train to ketch." And, with a slightly regretful look on his face, Langenscheidt urged his charges on toward their barracks to pack their things for the trip to their new work assignment. He looked back over his shoulder. "They vill write, Newkirk; I vill see that their letters are sent back to you."

He had to grin at that assurance; the young guard knew how close-knit a group Hogan's men were. It was hard, though, losing more of their group, seeing _their_ men scattered across the German Reich. He sighed and headed back to his barracks, since there was nothing he could do about the situation but grin and try to bear it.

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_**November 21, 1942, AM**_

_**Stalag XVI, outside Düsseldorf, Germany**_

The headlines of the newspapers screamed it in bold print:

**NOTORIOUS ALLIED SPY 'PAPA BEAR' SENTENCED TO FIRING SQUAD**

None of Hogan's men needed to read any further. The guards wisely left them alone; even Hermann gave Barracks 14 a wide berth all morning. They were under strict orders from _Oberst_ Ritter to do nothing to provoke Hogan's men; no one wanted the bloodbath that they feared would follow this conviction. Bad enough now, the German colonel thought as he gazed morosely out his office window. The execution was said to be scheduled for dawn in three days. _That_ was when things could get really bad.

So far, though, the men of _Barracke_ 14 seemed to be keeping to themselves and doing nothing to provoke the guards. They'd showed up at Appell this morning, quiet and orderly, within the required time, this despite hearing a preliminary report on a radio, illegal though that was.

A shame, really; a waste of an apparently brilliant man, Ritter mused. He would have liked to meet this Hogan, if even half the reports about him were true. That was out of the question now, of course. He would just have to try to keep those men safely occupied so they could stay out of trouble. He'd heard about the deal that Hogan had made for his men's sake; it would be criminal if such a sacrifice were to go to waste due to something that he, Ritter, had failed to do. He would have to consider this carefully.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

The week went slowly by; Monday came and went, and Hogan's men held a brief memorial service for him. They still kept mostly to themselves, even the other prisoners steering clear of them. Carter and Foster were depressed; LeBeau's muttered curses could be heard continually. And Newkirk fought to keep from snapping at the guards, for he knew that their unexpected tolerance wouldn't last forever.

It didn't help matters that the Germans seemed to be reneging on their _other_ promise.

LeBeau was one of the few Frenchmen in Stalag XVI; in fact, the only reason he'd been sent here at all was because he'd been one of Hogan's inner circle of saboteurs and spies. Thus, it was not obvious that the French, Dutch, and Belgian prisoners being held in Germany were, slowly but surely, being sent back to their own countries. They'd been going back since the seventh of November, back to try to pick up the pieces of their lives. No one at Stalag XVI knew this for a fact, though, despite what the German newspapers were printing about it.

No; the problem was that the British and Commonwealth prisoners were still there in camp. It was the 25th already, and not even the first man had been sent out. Tempers were getting frayed by the continued confinement, and the heavy snows that had started to fall on the 23rd hadn't helped the situation in the least. Everyone was convinced that the Germans were lying to them again, just as they had in the past under Hitler. So when, on the evening of the 26th, two guards escorted a well-dressed man in a German greatcoat into their barracks, Newkirk blew up.

"'Ere, now, you can't be puttin' no Kraut in 'ere wi' us!" he snapped out angrily. This was, for him, the last straw. But the man lifted his head…and Colonel Robert Hogan's laughing dark eyes looked out at his men once more.

Things changed dramatically after that at Stalag XVI. They were still mostly confined to their barracks, due to the weather, but they had enough warm clothes that they could, and did, go play in the snow the next morning. Newkirk threw and was clobbered by his fair share of snowballs; even the guards got in on the snowball fight, to the amazement of the prisoners. There were smiles to be seen in the barracks for the first time in weeks, and Newkirk and LeBeau were shown first-hand _why_ the English troops were still being held behind barbed-wire fences. The General in charge of prisoner repatriation, the same General Mannheim that had caught them, showed Newkirk and LeBeau their files.

It was unbelievable, Newkirk fumed silently. He clearly saw the dates; his paperwork had been returned to the bleedin' Krauts _six times! _And for the _stupidest_ reasons! It was as if whoever was in charge in England didn't _want_ to bring their own boys back home again. At last he started to believe Mannheim. If _his _file looked like this, what did everyone else's look like?

And then the German dropped his other bombshell, but, when Newkirk thought about it, it made sense.

The Germans had to do something with all the Americans who'd come over to help fight against Hitler and his Nazis. They'd defied their own government to stay and fight; now they were forbidden to return. So the Germans, in their efficient, practical way, had decided to keep those men and use them as a labor pool to help rebuild Europe and run the farms—at least, the ones willing to work. The rest could rot behind wire; no doubt sometime in the future, those slackers would have their rations cut to starvation levels.

The Germans had worked the enlisted ranks while the war had been raging, monitored by the Protecting Power; now they could set even the officers to work. The problem was internal security.

The Germans weren't stupid, Newkirk knew. They would be crazy to let all those thousands of enemy soldiers wander at will over their newly conquered territory and throughout the German heartland. During the war, POWs had had dogtags—identity disks—and sets of papers that they'd had to carry. The Englishman knew how effective _they_ were, being part of Hogan's forging staff when he wasn't busy elsewhere. Papers were too easy to change; disks could be too easily "misplaced." So the Germans, ever practical, had decided to tattoo each man's ID number on his person. _Where_ it was placed wasn't clad in iron, but the right forearm was the most common location, since it was easily accessible. Captured females---mostly nurses----were exempt from the otherwise mandatory tattoo.

And it was law now: No tattoo, no going outside the wire for any American-born personnel. Those already out on assignment would have to allow it to be done, or they would be returned to confinement. Even Hogan bore such a number-tattoo, although his was not on his arm.

But the general had wanted both Newkirk and LeBeau to accept the tattoo also, due to their wartime activities. Peter had nearly refused, until the little Frenchman had declared it to be "a badge of honor" for the two of them; they would be marked just like their comrades and friends, and their leader. So he had agreed, and they had gone then and there to have it done, before they could change their minds.

Now Newkirk just waited for Hogan to return from whatever errand he'd been sent on that afternoon, so he could show off his own number. _Of all the stupid things to be proud of,_ he scoffed to himself as he waited. It grew later and later, and still the colonel did not return. Finally, at lights-out, Newkirk could stand it no longer.

"'Ere, now, 'Ermann, what's 'appened to the Colonel?" he demanded when the Gefreiter came to check on them for the night.

The German looked at his interrogator cautiously. The _Englander_ had been very mellow all day, his beloved CO here and apparently safe. Now? _«Der Vater Bär_ was hurt in Town this Evening, I have heard,» he answered in German, since it was too difficult for him to render that simple statement in English, and Newkirk understood German anyway. «General Mannheim was called from Camp; I do not know anything more, Newkirk.»

Newkirk bristled. Hogan, hurt? Who would dare…?!!! But one of the other guards came running up, looking for Hermann with orders; he was to report to _Herr General_ at the hospital for guard duty.

«I will tell you what I learn when I return, Newkirk; you can tell the others,» Hermann tried to assure the Corporal as he headed for the door.

"The Guv'nor don't need no guard on 'im!" Newkirk protested angrily, causing the German to stop once more and look back.

«Perhaps it is to _protect_ him; have you considered that? _Someone_ hurt him, after all.» Then Hermann was gone, leaving Hogan's loyal men to worry about their leader once more.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

"'Ey, there, Guv'nor. 'Ad yerself quite the party, we 'eard," Newkirk said softly as he was ushered into the room where Hogan lay recuperating. It was midmorning; the _Doktor_ in town had released him from the hospital, and Newkirk couldn't recall Hogan ever looking so bad before without having had a run-in with either the Gestapo or the SS. To calm the restless natives, as the general had put it, he'd had Newkirk and Carter sent for so they could see Hogan's condition for themselves and report back to the rest.

"Y' c'd say tha'," the American officer managed to mumble through the badly swollen and broken skin of his face and mouth. "C'd y' pass me a drin'…?"

Grinning, Newkirk passed his CO a glass of water with a straw, holding it for the other man. "General Mann'eim said you were getting' another tattoo, Colonel. One wasn't enough for you?"

"D'is one's pre'y…'ell," Hogan muttered, frustrated that he couldn't talk clearly. _This one's pretty,_ he'd just tried to say, and _he_ couldn't even understand his own words.

"Easy, sir. The General said it were 'is coat o' arms. Told Louis an' me about it yesterday. We got one too, now," Newkirk admitted, still feeling a strange pride. "Just me number, sir; nothin' fancy."

"'Y 'e nummer y'?" Hogan demanded, mildly upset. _Why'd he number you? _Newkirk was supposed to be released; Mannheim had sworn it.

"'E's gonna let us go, sir," the Cockney hurried to reassure him. "'E just wants t' make sure we can be identified easy-like. I mean, considerin' what-all we got up to, wi' you. Both Louis an' me 'as 'em now, sir." Newkirk paused, thinking over what he'd just said. He couldn't ever recall saying "sir" so much in his life before this. "An' I want t' say, I were proud to 'ave been with you, too. Do it again, if I 'ad it t' do over, I would.

"Do you know, th' Krauts're callin' us _die Bärenjunge—_the Bear's Cubs?"

Hogan looked at his man through blackened eyes and started to chuckle. Whatever he might have said, though, was cut off by Weber's arrival.

"General Mannheim says you must leave now, Newkirk. It is Carter's turn, and then Hogan must rest. You can come back several days from now."

He wanted to argue, but he wanted to come back again. With great reluctance he said, "Yes, sir," to this young German that Hogan was actually _smiling_ at—as well as he _could_ smile in his current condition—then went to wait in the outer room until Carter had had his visit too.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

He was mostly ignoring Carter as the young sergeant rambled on and on, back in the barracks. Most of the other guys were smiling tolerantly; the relative newcomer to their group, a Captain Dirk Martins, listened with a bemused look on his face that eventually turned to outright puzzlement.

"Carter…Whoa, ease up a minute, Carter," he finally said. "What was your colonel doing in town, anyway?"

"'E went t' get 'im a second tattoo," Newkirk took over the conversation. They had decided amongst themselves that they weren't going to tell this new man Hogan's name, not wanting that to influence his decision. He had been singled out to fly as the General's copilot, with Hogan as pilot, and all of the "Bear's Cubs" wanted his cooperation to be given freely, if at all. That would be safer for Hogan, they felt. But Newkirk knew that if he didn't turn Carter off soon, he'd give Hogan's identity away. So far, he'd only been referred to as "the Guv'nor," "the Colonel," and "PAPA BEAR."

"A second one?" Martins looked even more confused now.

"Yeah. 'E's gonna be th' pilot for General Mann'eim, y'see. 'Is personal pilot, like. But 'is number is on 'is back, so 'e went t' get a second one on 'is arm, t' make things easier. Got th' general's coat o' arms on 'is left forearm now. Marks 'im out as real special, so's the Krauts shouldn't pound on 'im too much. That bloke in Düsseldorf what worked 'im over, 'e's in really big trouble now, for what he done t' th' Colonel." Cor, he was flapping his jaws almost as much as Carter now, Newkirk thought with a mental chuckle.

"That general wants me to fly for him, too," Martins said, his voice soft. He still wasn't certain how these men would react to that information, and so he offered it cautiously. But they just nodded and seemed to think no worse of him for it, so he went on. "You figure he's likely to make me have it, too?"

"Don't know. We don't really know General Mannheim very well," Foster cut in. "It could be just because the colonel's number is in such an awkward location."

"I think it's kinda neat," Carter began enthusiastically. "I mean, everyone has to have a number. Now you and Louis, Peter, _your_ numbers are special too, but that second one really says this general values the colonel. It marks him out special, yes sirree, boy!"

The listening men smiled indulgently at Carter. It was actually good to see him like this again; he'd been so quiet and depressed all the previous week. "Wish _we_ could have something special too," he ended, looking somewhat downcast again.

"But, Andre, _we_ are not being taken by this general; only _le colonel_ is _his_ man." LeBeau was going to try reason first; if that didn't work, someone else would have to divert Carter's attention from the subject.

"No, we're th' Guv'nor's men," Newkirk agreed. "We're th' Bear's Cubs and special enough."

"But no one can _see_ that," Carter argued, although he didn't know why this was so important to him.

"What, you want a big, bloody sign across yer fore'ead?" Sarcasm usually worked to divert the young sergeant, Newkirk knew, but this time it didn't.

"No!" Carter returned, looking hurt now. "I mean, we did things in secret; we should have something we could keep hidden, but _we'd_ know it was there---our own mark of honor." He'd heard LeBeau and Newkirk referring to their number-tattoos like that the previous afternoon.

"An' where'd ye put it?" Newkirk challenged. "Tattoos are big an' not easy to 'ide, Andrew."

"It doesn't have to be," Carter returned stubbornly. "It could be small enough to…to…" He frantically wracked his brain a moment, then grinned victoriously. "It could be small enough to go under a wristwatch. It doesn't _have_ to be really fancy, you know." And, to Carter's surprise, the others were looking at him with interest now, not the gentle derision that usually met most of his suggestions.

"And it would not 'ave to be anything very obvious," LeBeau said, his voice very thoughtful now.

"But it would have be somehow connected to what we were," Foster specified.

"We've been called a lot o' things, mates. "'How're ye gonna choose among 'em?" Newkirk's question silenced them for long moments, until finally Carter's grin lit up the table.

"How about the outline of a teddy bear?" he offered, nearly laughing at the look of outraged shock on everyone's faces. "Why not? The Germans call us the Bear's Cubs—_die Bärenjunge._ That's literally the bear's _children,_ isn't it? So why not a kid's toy bear? No one else would figure out what it meant. So it'd be a great secret code-sign. Wouldn't it?" He let his uncertainty show then, for he really didn't want to be laughed at right then.

The others looked at each other in shock once more. "My Gawd, it's _brilliant!"_ Foster found his voice first. "And it's not something that anyone else might use unintentionally, either."

"Who'd get t' wear it?" Newkirk asked.

"Why not the nine of us, that the _Boche_ 'ad in 'Ammelburg?" LeBeau asked. "You, Peter; Andre, me, Kinch and Baker—we would 'ave to let them know about it in a letter—you, Foster; Olsen, Wilson, and Matthews, if _he_ wants it. Anyone who went out from camp to fight the _Boche;_ Wilson because he was so good a medic for us. We were PAPA BEAR's assault squad, after all."

"Do you think Jerry will let us do it?" Foster asked, but the question did nothing to dampen anyone's enthusiasm.

"If the Guv'nor asks that general of 'is, probably," Newkirk smirked. "'E's got 'is own aide in there, seein' t' the colonel's comfort."

_"Oui._ And it will be one more layer of security for _us,"_ LeBeau added darkly. _"Le Boche_ will be able to tell who we were from them."

"'Ey, they can do that from our papers, Louis. It'll just show 'em we're not tryin' to 'ide nothin'."

"I think it'll be really neat, boy…"

"Fine. _You_ can ask 'Ermann, then." And everyone laughed at the expression on Carter's face.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

Several days had passed, and Newkirk was back in to see Hogan, LeBeau waiting in the outer room for his turn. The American laughed when Newkirk mentioned the idea, but only eliminated Matthews from the list, on the grounds that all the other barracks-chiefs would then be eligible also. Matthews hadn't been included all that often, but Joe Wilson had definitely earned inclusion in that exclusive group. Hogan volunteered to request permission for his men, but Newkirk shook his head.

"Sorry, sir, but we've already tapped Carter for that," Newkirk said with a laugh. "It were 'is idea, after all. An' that barracks-guard, Gefreiter 'Ermann, seems to be decidin' 'e likes Carter. If 'e won't go to th' general or Ritter for us, then you can. We need to know what 'ell do for us if _we_ ask 'im."

Hogan sighed. "You're right. I won't be here all the time to ask for things you need. I probably won't be _here_ much at all; we're going down to Italy, I'm told, right after Christmas. That should be fun, with _this." _He waved his left hand at his splinted right wrist by way of further explanation.

Newkirk smiled. "Oh, you'll be mostly 'ealed up by then, Guv'nor."

"Yeah, you're right," Hogan agreed, then grinned. "And you and LeBeau will be home by then, too." He chuckled at the shock on Newkirk's face. "Louis is going in two days, back to Paris. You'll be leaving a week after that. Don't tell anyone else, Peter, not even LeBeau, yet. But General Mannheim is fed up with the games the English government is playing. We'd be going _there_ right after Christmas, if this thing with Italy hadn't come up. Once that's taken care of, though… I'll look you up when we get to London."

"I'll take _that_ as your oath, sir," Newkirk avowed. "But I'll 'old me tongue. I'd best be goin', sir. Got to get this final list to Andrew, since time's short."

"I'll see you before you go, Peter." Hogan's voice was soft; his eyes filled with longing as he watched the corporal head out the door. To go home again, even just for a visit… He shut his eyes, hiding his pain. But Weber, in the outer room, had heard him and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he watched Newkirk leave and LeBeau go in for his own visit.

*********

A/N: Hogan's reappearance is covered in "A Papa Bear of His Very Own."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_**December 8, 1942**_

_**London, England**_

The large German transport plane lumbered down towards the waiting runway, looking for all the world like a pregnant duck. She wasn't as heavily laden as the men waiting to unload her thought, for she hardly bounced as her pilot set her skillfully down on the tarmac, then let her waddle her way along the taxiway to the nearby terminal.

Heathrow hadn't been an RAF base, but its runways were long enough to accommodate the massive Arado 232, and the airfield was in London itself. The Germans hadn't hesitated to commandeer the facility for their own use, conscripting out-of-work _Englanders_ to load and unload the planes for them. And those Englishmen cursed to think that yet more German soldiers were arriving to occupy their country, the same way that France and Holland had been garrisoned.

Only the slim young WAAF corporal smiled at this landing, as she waited beside a staff car with her German escort. Mavis Newkirk could hardly contain her excitement as she waited in the bright midmorning sun. There she'd been, sorting useless paperwork at her desk, but who was complaining? It was a job, when so many of the auxiliary forces had been let go at the end of the hostilities. She persevered, even though it was apparent that her immediate English supervisor didn't like her. She hadn't realized that her department's _German _overseer had even known of her existence. But, there she'd been…

_"Mavis?" Leftenant Harrow's receptionist tried to get the young corporal's attention quietly, but, Lord, how that girl would get herself into her work… _"Mavis!"_ she called louder, bringing the dark head up sharply, turning those green eyes her way. _"He _wants you in his office, pet."_

_"Harrow, Gladys?" Mavis asked, just to be sure, as she picked up her sweater and bag and prepared to face her nemesis._

_"No, pet. Himself, the Major. Bachmann." _That_ stopped Mavis in her tracks, but only for a moment. If the German wanted to see her, it was all the more reason to hurry. Their new overlords weren't known for patience, although no one in her office had had any experience with Bachmann yet. She, it seemed, would be the first._

_Lucky her._

_She hurried out the door, ignoring her leftenant's glare as she passed by his open door. The hallway seemed longer than usual as she hurried to the large office at the end. Major Erik Bachmann had been in place over this department for two weeks now, just long enough for her coworkers' speculation to grow extravagant. Well, she'd be able to set them right very soon now. She tapped at his closed door; almost immediately she heard called-out permission to enter. Some German, she smirked, it was good to know._

"Hierin,"_ he called, his voice level and calm-sounding._

_With one last breath for courage, she opened the door and entered the lion's den. Cool gray eyes studied her as she walked towards his desk, coming to attention and saluting as was proper. Many of the girls wouldn't, Mavis knew, although _she_ thought they were being foolish. Much better to keep things on an impersonal military footing._

_Gravely, the major returned her salute, then motioned towards a chair. _"Fräulein _Newkirk? Be seated, please," he instructed, waiting until she had settled uncertainly on the hard wooden surface. Once more he glanced at her, then shifted his attention to a folder on his desk. "You record here is…contradictory, _Fräulein," _he began in a carefully modulated tone. "During the war, you received only exemplary ratings. Lately, though your work is still exceptional, you have been given very poor reviews. There is a problem with your supervisor?" His eyes came up to study hers again. "It would appear that…someone…is trying to cost you your job. You have other income? Family that can support you, should this occur?"_

_"Sir, begging your pardon," she tried to keep a civil tone, although she could feel her temper threatening to boil over. "That's a personal problem, an' I'll thank you to…" She cut herself off and tried again. "I appreciate your concern, Herr Major, but I'll just have to deal with it the best I can." She kept her head high, her eyes expressionless._

_"I can see where you might think this none of my business, but if it costs me a highly trained, skilled worker, that _is_ my concern, _Fräulein. _Harassment that affects efficiency will not be tolerated. I will see to this myself… although that is not why I asked you to come here._

_"It says here that you have a brother, a Corporal Peter Newkirk, who was a POW held in Germany. This is so?"_

_Mavis took another long, slow breath, fighting for patience. "Sir, if that's me file, you already know that,"_ _she replied, her accent starting to slip back to her native East-End Cockney._

_"Humor me, _Fräulein." _He smiled slightly, not taking offense. "Not all of these records are accurate, and I would prefer to be certain._

_"Your brother is due to arrive in…" he paused to check his watch, "about two hours. I just received this notification from my superiors; apparently one of our generals thought you should be advised of this. If you would care to meet the aircraft, I can arrange a car and driver for you. An escort is advisable, since _your_ authorities have been blocking these releases at every turn. This is the first planeload to come back to England." He stopped and passed her a clean handkerchief, not commenting on the tears that filled her eyes._

_"Thank'e, sir; I…" Mavis began, once she had started to regain control._

_But the Major stopped her with a brief wave of one hand. "Think nothing of it, Fräulein. I must speak to Corporal Newkirk after he arrives anyway; this way, he will see that you are well and will have one less worry. He is in no trouble; he just needs to report in." He paused and looked thoughtfully at her for a long moment. "How much do you know of your brother's activities during the war?"_

_She paused, trying not to look panicked at this question. "Well, sir," she began cautiously, "'e was a gunner on a bomber, sir. Then 'e was shot down an' spent the last two years a POW---a bit more than that, really. Sir."_

_He nodded, a grim smile on his face. "Ah, yes; the _official_ version. And his POW years? Do you know where he was and what he did while there?"_

_"They said 'e was at Luftstalag XIII, sir," she answered readily enough, even as she wondered what this man knew. "As far as what 'e were doin' there, I s'pose 'e did what all POWs did."_

_He laughed, truly amused. He had never seen such a convincing display of ignorant innocence in his life, and he'd seen some very good actors during his career in Abwehr. If he hadn't known better, he would have believed her. However… "Fräulein Newkirk, I _know_ that you were one of the radio operators who monitored transmissions from the various underground units working against the Nazis." He kept his voice gentle, for he did not want to frighten her more than this subject would. "We know this, _and_ we know that the GOLDILOCKS unit—_your_ unit—monitored the frequencies used by PAPA BEAR, based at Stalag XIII. You may safely admit that; no one will be in trouble for it. PAPA BEAR_ _has already been tried; his men all have pardons for the sabotage that they did at his orders, so your brother is safe from us for those activities._

_"However, part of his pardon includes the requirement that he report his whereabouts once each month, and that he report in every time that he travels. So this he must do, before he can try to find somewhere to stay. I suspect that _your_ authorities will do nothing to help any of these men get settled. We will be providing billeting for them at first, until they can do for themselves. But there is no sense in putting temptation before as canny a man as Corporal Newkirk._

_"So, you may go with the car to collect him. In fact," Major Bachmann paused, a genuine smile in his eyes, _"you,_ Fräulein, may take the rest of the day off, once I have spoken to Corporal Newkirk. I am sure that you have much to catch up on, and you can, perhaps, help him find someplace to stay."_

_"'E'll stay at my flat, 'til 'e can find a place of 'is own." There would be no arguing with Mavis on that account._

_"That will do admirably," Bachmann agreed. "So. You should, perhaps, go now, if you wish to meet the plane. Traffic can be surprisingly heavy near the airfield."_

_"Yes, sir. And sir? Thank you." Mavis smiled back at him, genuinely grateful. She stood, saluted, and gathered her things…then paused, looking slightly uncertain._

_"You may go; the car will be at the main entrance by the time you get there," Bachmann said, reading her hesitation correctly. He placed her file to one side of his desk and turned his attention to another stack of papers, clearly dismissing her. He looked up and smiled again momentarily as the door closed behind her, then turned back to the never-ending paperwork._

—**o-O-o—**

The transport came to a stop at the terminal, and a tall set of steps had been wheeled into place at the open door of the plane. Then men appeared at the opening, carrying small bundles. The first one down the stairs, almost as if it were the place of honor, was Corporal Peter Newkirk. He paused a moment, looking around; then his mind registered motion near him, and he turned just in time to catch his sister up in his arms. "Eh, Mavis, luv," he crooned as he held her, understanding that the tears streaming down her face were tears of joy. He felt like shedding some himself, although he wouldn't do that out here, in public. "What are _you_ doin' 'ere, pet?"

"Our supervisor was sending a car to pick you up," she finally got enough control of herself to reply. "He thought I'd like to come and meet you. I _suspect,"_ she added, a mischievous gleam lighting her eyes despite the dampness in them, "that he thought you'd come along more readily if I were here, than if he just sent guards to meet you."

"Still working for Intelligence, then?" Peter asked, startled to hear this.

"Surprisingly, yes," she said, but got no further as two distinct groups of men approached the disembarking POWs. One group, slightly behind the other, was clearly comprised of reporters; they had pads of paper, and bulky shoulder-slung wire-recorders, with microphones already out. There were photographers there also, already starting to take pictures of the new arrivals.

The leading group, though—_they_ did not look at all happy. The first in that group came over to Newkirk scowling. "Here, now, what's all this? Where are your entry permits? You can't just come in here like this, without going through customs. There _are_ regulations, you know."

Newkirk just laughed. "You'd best take that up wi' th' German Bloody 'Igh Command, mate. _We_ just go where we're told t' go. You best step aside, or these nice Krauts 'ere are like t' shoot you for interferin'. They got orders, y'see."

"But…" the man sputtered; then the reporters reached them, and Newkirk was in his glory, describing the paperwork in his file that had been returned to the Germans. And he laughed even more as he watched reporters taking pictures of the officials slinking away, their metaphorical tails between their legs. Then German military police came to see what the hold-up was. Oh, yes, but th' guv'nor's general had had it right: it was going to hit the fan right proper, it was. And he could just imagine how they'd squawk when they learned about the other five planes, _larger_ planes, that had landed at various old bomber bases, scattered across the countryside. Cor; _his_ flight had only had fifty of them crammed on board; those big ME-323s were carrying 120 blokes each! _Happy Christmas, you bloody Commies. Now see what 'appens, once John Q. Public finds out what you were doin'. _And these were just the start.

So thinking, Newkirk finished his impromptu interview with the statement that the Jerries had promised that they'd have the Brits coming home, and here they were, despite all obstacles put in their way. More would be coming now, every few days, until all were home who could be sent. Hitler might have been a 'ruddy liar,' but the Jerries in charge _now_ meant what they said and kept their given word when at all possible. And on that note, he helped Mavis into the waiting car and slid in after her, watching his fellow POWs climbing into commandeered London buses for their ride to temporary housing.

He kept up his cocky exterior until they were well away from Heathrow Airfield and any prying eyes or camera lenses; then he slumped against the seat-back with a sigh. Mavis looked at her brother in concern. "Are you all right, Peter?" she asked, trying to mask her alarm.

Newkirk grinned at her, although he let his eyes remain closed. "Oh, yeah; I'm just tired, luv. It were a long flight, an' that ruddy plane weren't tricked out for passengers. It's a bloomin' cargo plane, after all, though they made sure we 'ad plenty o' blankets. I'll be glad, though, once I've seen whoever I 'ave to an' can get me some sleep. 'Ope you don't mind, pet."

"That's all right, Peter," she said, relieved just to have him home again and looking so good. She'd half-expected a ragged scarecrow… And she smiled gently when she realized that he'd drifted off to sleep just that fast.

—**o-O-o—**

He felt someone shaking his arm. "Come _on,_ Peter-luv; wake up. We're here; you have to wake up and go inside. Peter…"

"I'm awake; enough," he sighed, peeling one eyelid back to peer at his sister in resignation. "Do y' know where I'm s'posed t' report?"

"Major Bachmann said that he needed to talk to you," Mavis offered hesitantly, then grinned at Peter's long-suffering sigh.

"Right, then. An' if I'm s'posed t' be someplace else, I'm sure my guards'll tell me… «won't you, Lads?» he switched to German as he noticed the driver glancing at him in his rear-view mirror and trying not to grin.

_«Die hübsches Mädchen_ has it correct, _Herr Obergefreiter,»_ the driver, a _Soldat_ with plain shoulder-boards, confirmed, his voice surprisingly polite.

"Watch it, mate. That 'pretty girl' is me sister," Newkirk started hotly in defense of his sib. The driver and the second soldier merely grinned; the second man sighed dramatically.

«My Luck is like that also, Englander: The pretty ones that _like_ me are all _related_ to me. Perhaps I will be more fortunate here; surely the Ladies won't _all_ hate us—or not forever, at least.»

"You can 'ope, mate," Newkirk laughed back, thinking how surreal this bilingual conversation was. Mavis obviously didn't speak or understand German, for she had a puzzled look on her face.

«Best go in, _Herr Obergefreiter; der Major_ is waiting for you, and he will know that you are here; his Aide's Office overlooks this Street.»

"Right. Ta, then, chaps. Keep yer 'eads down." He waited until the second _Soldat_ had come and opened the car door for them, slid out, then handed Mavis out afterwards. She giggled at the gesture, which only made his smile widen. "Let's go beard the lion in 'is den, shall we, then?" he said, and escorted her into the building.

She had them go up the back stairs, which raised Peter's eyebrows, but that only made her sigh before explaining. "If we go this way, we can get to the major's office without having to pass by Leftenant Harrow's office. I'd rather avoid him if at all possible, for as long as possible. The man seems to hate me for some reason," she told Newkirk, who seemed not to be listening at first, but then he suddenly stopped and looked up at her when she climbed three more steps before realizing that he'd stopped.

"'Arrow, you say? That wouldn't be _Archibald_ 'Arrow, would it?"

"Why, yes; it is. Do you know him?"

"Oh, yeah, I knows 'im. I knows 'im right well, an' if 'e's givin' you a 'ard time, luv, it's probably on account o' me. I ran wi' 'im when I were young an' stupid, an' new t' th' service. 'E was gettin' into things I wanted no part o', though, so we parted ways after some words. If 'e's botherin' you, Mavis…"

"No; it'll be all right, Peter," Mavis hurriedly tried to defuse this situation before her overprotective brother made things any worse. "Major Bachmann said he'd be looking into this himself." She chewed her lip, a sure sign of nerves from her childhood, and Peter nearly grinned at that memory.

"I'll be speakin' to this major o' yours on several things, then," was all he'd say as he began to climb the stairs once more.

Mavis tapped quietly at the office door they'd stopped in front of, not wanting to be heard further down the hallway. It was clearly loud enough inside, though, for within moments the door was opened by the major's aide, a young blond _Gefreiter _who came to a relaxed attention in deference to Newkirk's rank. Peter looked at the youth curiously, but said nothing and stepped inside when the young man moved back to clear the path to the desk.

The man waiting for them was about the colonel's age, Newkirk guessed. His sandy-brown hair was thinning just slightly, but his gray eyes were clear and full of a lively intelligence. Newkirk sighed; there'd be little chance of pulling a fast one on _this_ man, or he was no judge of character. He stopped in front of the desk at attention, saluting reluctantly, and announced, "Corporal Peter Newkirk reporting as ordered, sir."

The major smiled, then gravely returned the salute. But it was Mavis he turned to, ignoring Peter at first. "Thank you, Corporal Newkirk—and, yes, I can see where we might have a problem here. You may return to your work. I will have you sent for when I am finished with your _Bruder."_

"Yes, sir," she answered, clearly disappointed to be excluded from the upcoming discussion. But she was too well disciplined a soldier to argue the matter, even though Peter certainly would have. Saluting again herself, she turned and left the office to return to her own pile of paperwork.

"And now for you," Major Bachmann said, turning his full attention to Newkirk at last. "Your papers, please." He held out his hand, ready to accept the folder that Newkirk pulled out of his tunic's inner breast pocket, but the Englishman hesitated before turning them over.

"One question, sir," he said, trying to keep his voice polite. "Is this where you'll be keepin' me papers? Th' main office, like?"

Bachmann eyed this brash young corporal thoughtfully as he leaned back into his chair once more. Why, he wondered, would this matter? But it clearly did; so… "This will be considered your 'home of record'---London, that is, until further notice. So, yes, this office will be keeping your files. Why?"

"Well, sir, y'see, there's a problem 'ere in yer office. An' I've one bit o' paper 'ere---a further proof o' ident that's not t'be sent out to any but me main office. General Mann'eim's orders, that last. I just don't want that t' be leakin' out."

"A problem? What sort of problem, Corporal?" Bachmann was concerned to hear about any sort of possible security leak, and this Newkirk had only just arrived. What could he have learned in such a short time?

"There's an officer 'ere; I knew 'im when I were young an' reckless an' not respectin' _any_ authority. 'Im an' me…well, th' sayin' 'thick as thieves' fit us just right. Only, I could see big trouble the way things were 'eadin' an' got out. Th' thing is, sir, 'e's in a position where 'e could cause me more'n a bit o' trouble. _And_ you, sir, if 'e's got access to th' accounts or payroll 'ere. 'E'd sell 'is mum for a copper; can't imagine _what _'e'd do for a quid."

"This wouldn't be the officer who's giving your sister a hard time, would it?"

"Yeah, it is, but that's not why I'm tellin' you. 'E would'a liked t' sell secrets, early in th' war—I know you know about me safe-crackin' skills—but I weren't up for that. I 'ad _some_ honor, even in those days. An' now 'e's 'ere, in an office just full o' bloody secrets.

"I know you need proof, sir. You want, I'll _find_ you that proof. I've 'ad enough experience, ticklin' out secrets what want t' stay hid."

"I…see." Oh, yes, he _did_ see, and it made sense, too. The department to which Harrow was assigned had had a reputation for being as leaky as a sieve. There'd been no proof, though, and then the war had ended. Bachmann frowned as a further thought struck him: Just _who_ had recommended Harrow for his present position? His gaze focused on the Corporal in front of him. "So you are saying…what, Corporal Newkirk? That you will work for me, to catch this traitor? You will be—how do you say it—my man?"

"Eh…no, sir," Newkirk hedged, but his voice held a certain _something_ that was hard to describe. "I'm Colonel 'Ogan's man, an' always will be. 'E gave up 'is life for me an' th' rest, an' I'll never be forgettin' that. I'll be doin' this for _'im,_ 'cause I know 'e'd want me to do."

"So tell me, Newkirk," Bachmann said, intrigued despite himself at the workings of this man's mind. "How does General Mannheim fit into the picture?"

Peter looked down a moment, then grinned. "Well, sir, th' Colonel, 'e's Mannheim's now, on account o' 'e 'ad to be, t' save th' rest o' us. So if I'm 'is, and 'e's the general's, then I guess I'm the general's too, more or less."

"I see," Bachmann gravely commented, though he was fighting not to laugh at this. "I suspect that, in your case, Newkirk, it's more a matter of _less,_ than _more._ But, enough. Whatever the reasons, you must report to this office for the next four months, at the least. So I might as well make use of you, since you are willing. You will be reporting directly to me. Use the excuse of visiting your sister for access here, if you need to. I will arrange pay for you. Unfortunately, it will only be at half-scale, since you are unofficial. You will need to stay in uniform for that time anyway, unless you are otherwise directed.

"Now, your papers, if you would."

"Oh. Yes, sir. 'Ere you go, sir," he said as he calmly handed over his identity folder with a grin. "Mavis says that I'll be stayin' at 'er place 'til I find a place o' me own."

"That is acceptable. Now, one last thing," the major said, looking up from the packet. "This says that you now bear a bondsman's tattoo. You will show me."

"Right you are, then," Newkirk cheerfully agreed as he pulled up his right sleeve to expose the string of numbers. At the German's nod, he let his sleeve slide down again, then eased the left one up a bit and removed his watch. "There's this one, too, Major," he said, his voice lowered now. "It's not in me papers, but all o' us Bear's Cubs got this one now. I got a note 'ere from General Mann'eim about it." He displayed the still-healing tattoo of a small seated teddy bear, then covered it with his watch once more.

"The Bear's Cubs?"

"Yes, sir; that's what Gen'ral Mann'eim an' the guards at Stalag XVI called us, _die Bärenjunge---_those o' us as were PAPA BEAR's men. It's 'ow _you_ can tell us, if someone claims t' be one o' us, sir."

"And _that_ is why no one outside this office is to know," the major finished that thought with a smile. "Very clever of whoever thought that up. I see that this is a recent development, well past the end of the war."

"Last week, sir. It seemed a good idea at the time."

"I agree. But, enough. Go and get yourself settled… _Unterfeldwebel_ Newkirk. Report back if and when you have something for me—yes, I'm Abwehr—or I will see you sometime the first week of January for your routine report-in. You are dismissed."

"Yes, sir." he stood and saluted, then left as he saw Bachmann picking up the phone.

He got as far as the hallway; then the door to the smaller adjoining office opened, and the young aide beckoned him inside. Curious now, Newkirk complied.

_"Deine Schwester _will _hier_ you choin (join)," he struggled to say.

Peter took pity on the youth. «I speak German, if that's easier for you, _Gefreiter.»_

_«Oh, ja, veile dank._ Corporal Newkirk will join us here to escort you out until Security can be notified of your Status,» the young German explained happily. «I have your Ration Books for you, and Back Pay for this Month. _Herr_ Major's Orders. So you will have a little Money, at least, until you find Work. You will find that _they_ will try _not_ to give you the Back-Pay you are owed; we have heard strong Rumors to that Effect already. If you have any Questions, _Unterfeldwebel,_ I will do my best to answer them.»

«Do I change the Stripes on my Uniform?» He didn't know why he asked that---curiosity, most likely.

«Yes, but you will have to use the American-type Stripes---they call it 'Staff Sergeant.' You do not have the correct Equivalent in your RAF.»

«In that Case, I'll leave my old Stripes on. Too confusing otherwise.»

«As you wish; it will be harder for us to show you the proper Respect, though.»

Whatever Newkirk meant to answer went unsaid as Mavis tapped at the door and entered.

"All right, luv; ready t' go?" Peter asked his sister, letting his exhaustion show once again.

"Let's just get you home, shall we? Thanks, Johann. I'll see you in the morning."

_"_Ja, _Fräulein_ Newkirk. _Im Morgen."_ And the young man gave her a gentle smile before returning to his own work, not even watching as the two sibs left his office.

Mavis snuck both of them down the back stairs again. There was no car for them this time, but Peter's duffle of gear wasn't all that large, so they caught a bus instead of wasting money on a taxi. Newkirk had no intention of advertising the fact that, at the moment, money was not one of his concerns. Mavis assured him that the ride wasn't long, nor would the walk from the stop be either, and that was good enough for him. It was such a luxurious feeling to be _officially_ outside a barbed-wire pen, even if he had seemed to acquire a pair of shadows since leaving the records department. He decided to ignore them and just concentrated on his feeling of freedom on this surprisingly pretty December day.

The walk from the bus stop was only two short blocks—for London—but he eyed the old walkup they arrived at with some trepidation. Five stories it was, but it turned out that Mavis' flat was on the first floor(1), so he only had one flight of stairs to cope with. Exercise he'd had, but that hadn't included stairs in far too long.

Mavis started apologizing for the flat before they'd even reached the door, but Newkirk just smiled. It would be neat as a pin, if his sister had anything to say about it; he'd willingly bet on it—and he wouldn't be the loser, either.

"Luv," he said, one hand on her face so he could look into her eyes, "I've just spent me last two an' a 'alf years in a POW camp: drafty wood barracks, not enough 'eat, mattresses so thin they might's well not even been there. The blankets, too. I'm not tellin' you about our laundry situation. An' the tunnels were bare earth. You'll 'ave nothin' 'ere for me t' complain about."

"It's only two bedrooms, Peter," she started again, a small worried crease between her eyes as she scowled slightly. "My roommate has the second. You'll be stuck on the couch."

"A roommate, eh? Is she pretty?" Peter's attention was definitely snagged by this.

"I suppose so, in a slimy sort of way. Oh, she's nice enough," Mavis hastened to amend her answer, but unhappiness still came through loud and strong. "She's going to be quite cross, though. To find you here, I mean. She hasn't too much say; the lease is in my name. But, Peter, she's always bringing men home these days, so I can hardly come out of my room of an evening. And they're up to all hours; it's little better when they do 'retire.' At least the men are usually gone when I get up for work in the mornings."

Newkirk frowned. "If she's up most nights like that, when does she work? Or _does_ she work?"

Mavis sighed. "She used to; she was an auxiliary sergeant, but they let her go once the armistice was signed. She got away with so much here, because she outranked me. Thank God she wasn't in my section. Now, though, I think that she takes 'gifts' from her 'gentlemen.' And I do use _that_ term loosely. I had to put a lock on my bedroom door, you know, so I could sleep without worrying at night."

"Oh, lovely. She 'ere now?" Newkirk hoped not, but he knew there'd be no avoiding the woman forever.

"Most likely. She usually gets up about now, goes I-don't- know-where all afternoon, then comes home mid-evening and… well, you know what I mean." She blushed as she said this to her brother.

"I doubt she'll bring any men 'ome as long as _I'm_ 'ere, so I think I'll just take me time findin' me own place. Now why don't you be th' luv an' let us in, hmmm?" he asked as he gently nudged her towards her flat's door.

"I'm glad you're home, Peter," she said as she fished her key out of her handbag and unlocked the door. As he'd expected, the flat was neat and clean, the only jarring note a pair of shoes against the wall next to one closed door.

"You can put your bag in my room for now, Peter," Mavis pointed to the other closed door, then turned to hang up her coat in the vestibule closet. Peter complied, but no sooner had he returned to the sitting-room than the fireworks started. An attractive young woman came out of the other bedroom and stopped short at the sight of Mavis.

"What are _you_ doing back here at this hour?" she demanded in a cultured voice. Peter hated her instantly.

"My supervisor gave me the rest of the day off. I'd like you to meet my brother Peter. He'll be staying here for a while, as he just got back from a camp in Germany. Peter, this is…"

But she was cut off by an indignant squawk. "And just _where_ do you expect him to sleep? There are only two bedrooms here, and I'm not about to give up mine," the woman snarled, her face twisted and ugly.

Mavis wasn't backing down; Peter decided to keep out of it for now, since this confrontation obviously had been a long time coming. "'E's sleepin' on th' sofa, not that that's any o' _your_ mind. If you don't like it, _you_ can be th' one t' be leavin'! I'm not 'avin' me brother, an' a 'ero at that, sleepin' out in th' street!"

She looked magnificent, Peter thought, with her eyes flashing, her face flushed with the anger that had brought her Cockney accent to the fore. Pity she was his sister. And a good thing the other woman backed down, because he knew that Mavis was a very accomplished street-wise fighter who pulled no punches when she was forced to fight. Where they'd grown up, you had to be, or you didn't survive.

"I'll be back later," the roommate said as she flounced out of the flat, slamming the door behind herself.

"Oh, lovely," Mavis groaned as she slumped to the settee next to her brother. "Now she'll be late with the bloody rent again, just out o' spite."

"So get a different roommate," Peter suggested helpfully, but Mavis just scowled.

"I can't. The bloody Germans 'ave a 'ousing freeze; you 'ave to _apply_ for a change like that, an all parties involved 'ave to be willin'. And she won't be, just out of spite. The soddin' heifer."

"Just keep your chin up, girl; I might be able to 'elp you wi' that." But he cut himself off as the flat's door opened and the Roommate from Hell stalked back in. She left the front door wide open as she crossed to her bedroom, locked that door, then left again without saying a single word. Newkirk was unable to hide his surprise as he stared after the departed woman. "What's got _'er_ knickers in a twist?" he finally managed.

"Oh, she started doing _that_ to get back at me for locking my door at night," Mavis laughed. "It's rather silly, actually; she only locks it when she goes out during the day."

Newkirk stared at his sister as if she'd grown three heads, then laughed. "Mavis, me luv, you may work _for_ Intelligence, but you're no agent. That sort 'o thing tells _me_ that she's got somethin' to 'ide. It makes me itch to know just what she's got in there…and I aim to find out."

"Peter, I really don't think that's necessary…" Mavis began, but trailed off as he shook his head.

"Sorry; if I wasn't livin' 'ere with you, that might pass, but there's no tellin' when _German_ Intelligence might take it into their minds t' search this place, and any contraband found… Well, you'd be implicated, since th' lease _is_ in your name."

"Oh, dear," she murmured, taken aback. "I hadn't thought of it _that_ way. But won't she hide anything like that?"

"Me luv, I'm an expert at 'idin' stuff. Lots of experience I 'as, from 'idin' stuff in camp. The Jerries never found what we wanted 'id…at least, not 'til that last, an' they found _that_ by sheer bloody accident. If she's got anything in there, I'll find it."

"But Peter, she locked her door," Mavis tried one last protest, then remembered some of her brother's less socially acceptable skills.

"That's not a problem."

"I don't think that I want to know about this," she stated emphatically, with a scowl.

Peter laughed at her. "Mavis, d' you still like takin' those long, 'ot bubble-baths that Mum used t' fuss so at you for?" His grin widened when she nodded. "Well, then, you go take you one o' those, whilst _I_ see what's t' be seen. I'll call you when you can come out. That way, if I don't find anythin', you can honestly say you didn't know what I were doin'. _If _she finds out, but I doubt she will. If I _do_ find anything, you call the coppers straight away, 'ear me?"

"Yes, Peter," she said, reminiscent of their childhood. She knew it, too, and they shared a laugh at that before she went into her room to gather her bath things. Peter was just thankful that _Leutnant_ Weber actually _had_ returned his lockpick once he'd been processed into Stalag XVI. He waited until he heard the tub filling, then went to examine that intriguing bedroom door.

The "trap" was ridiculously simple, and he found it right away. Thirty seconds later, he was in the room, and the search was on. Fifteen minutes later, he was tapping at the bathroom door. "Mavis, I need you out 'ere; I've already called the authorities. German Bloody Intelligence is comin'; this is beyond th' coppers." His voice held a serious note that Mavis could not recall ever hearing before; the war had changed her brother in unexpected ways.

She wasted no time drying off and dressing, and a good thing that was, for the knock on the door came a mere ten minutes later. She had had no experience with the Gestapo, but the cold eyes of the men who entered when she opened the door frightened her terribly. Newkirk put himself between his sister and the officers.

«I called you,» he said. «I'm Peter Newkirk, Mavis' Brother,» he told them, trying to head them off. He caught their attention, that was for sure, for his accent was much like Hogan's, who'd taught him, and not like the _Hoch Deutsch_ taught in the schools outside Germany.

The _Oberleutnant_ in charge of the detail looked at Newkirk closely, trying to elicit a nervous or guilty reaction, if any. The girl was clearly terrified of them, but this Peter Newkirk didn't fear them in the least, despite being military—or perhaps _because_ of it. «And why did you call us?»

«I just got here today from Germany, Sir," Peter explained, trying to keep a civil tone. «My Sister hasn't had the Experience needed to see it, but her Roommate made _me_ suspicious by some of the Things she did in the short Time I saw her. I…did some Espionage in the War, Sir; it's in my Records, and I'm registered with both Abwehr and Security as a Bit of a Hazard. But the War is over, and we have a lot of rebuilding to do. And we have a Common Enemy to fight now. None of us need small-minded Traitors messing things up for all of us.»

The officer studied him a moment in silence, trying to weigh the truth of his words. Then, «Your papers,» he demanded, his hand outstretched. His men watched as this Englander carefully reached into his tunic to pull out his ID folder, then, surprisingly, pulled up the right sleeve of his jacket.

Mavis gasped, for she'd never seen an ID tattoo before. She'd heard what had been done to the Jews, of course, but few had really believed those rumors. Now, though…

Newkirk looked back at her and grinned. "It's okay, Mavis; _this_ was done voluntarily, at General Mann'eim's request, on account o' what we done durin' the war. It's just t' prove that I'm who me papers say I am, since it's so ease to forge those things." He looked back over to the _Oberleutnant_ and grinned. «And no, I'm not afraid of you or your Men, Sir. I met the old Gestapo and SS and survived. Abwehr is civilized, especially compared to _those_ bloody Brutes.»

«I see. Where is this Evidence that must be inspected?»

Oh, yes, Peter thought; the topic change _was_ a good idea. «Over here, in this Bedroom. I'll show you what I found. I didn't disturb anything, once I saw what she was into. This is the Roommate's Room. She was formerly a Sergeant in the Women's Auxiliary, but she's unemployed now, living on the Generosity of her…Gentlemen Friends, let's say. I think she's getting a lot of this from them, but they probably don't realize what she's doing, either. I don't know any of their Names; I've never met any of them. I just don't want my Sister in Trouble from this, because she didn't know about any of it. The Woman kept her Door locked when she wasn't here, and Mavis is a good Girl; Locks keep _her_ out---unlike myself.» He ushered the group into the bedroom, pointing out the telltale on the door, then stood back, watching as they searched the room with professional care.

They did an expert job, missing nothing that Peter himself had found. All the while, the German officer kept one eye on Mavis where she waited in the sitting room. Finally, he turned to Peter. «We must search the other Room now,» he said, half-expecting the Englanders to protest and declare their innocence. They all did, very loudly, as if sheer volume could make them more comprehensible. He looked almost shocked when Newkirk nodded amiably and stepped back out of the room, moving toward his sister.

"They've got t' look in your room, too, ducks," he told her as he sat down next to her. "That's to prove you've got nothin' t' do with all this." He looked up as the two men went in, calling out in German, «The Duffle in there is mine, Mates, not my Sister's.»

«I should _hope_ not!» one called back, laughing, as he opened the bag and found Newkirk's pinup calendar. He put everything back semi-neatly when he was done, though, instead of trashing things the way the Gestapo had used to do. His companion soon joined him empty-handed, shaking his head at coming up negative.

The lieutenant looked down at Newkirk thoughtfully. «You are surprisingly tolerant for having been a _Kriegie_(2)_, _Corporal,» he began, but stopped at Newkirk's smirk.

_«She's_ the _Obergefreiter;_ _I'm_ an _Unterfeldwebel»_ he corrected blithely. «And I'm still bitter, but _you_ haven't done anything to upset me yet; you're just doing your Job, and doing it well, too. Besides, _I'm_ the one that called you here, remember?»

«I remember,» the German said, carefully holding onto his temper. Orders, after all, demanded that they try to keep a low profile and not antagonize the local population if reasonably possible. «Do you know where this Woman is now?»

«Sorry. I'd tell you if I did,» Peter replied and truly meant it. «My Sister says she usually goes out all Afternoon and early Evening, coming Home with Company then. There _is_ a Curfew here, right?»

«Yes. All but Military Personnel must be in by 2100, unless they have a Pass. Surprisingly, _you_ are not so limited. I wonder why?»

«Probably because it'd be too hard to enforce it for me; this way, I don't break any Laws. That's _my_ Guess, anyway.» He managed not to laugh, but the German heard the humor anyway and answered with a tight-lipped grin.

«Probably. Where will you be, _Herr_ Newkirk?»

«I'm staying here for now. Any Change of Address will be reported through _Herr Major_ Bachmann's Office.»

«Very well. We are through here for now,» the officer said as he watched his men removing the incriminating evidence. «Someone will be watching for her this Evening; she will be taken into Custody then. We will be in touch if we need you for anything else. _Auf wiedersehen, Herr Unterfeldwebel, Fräulein.»_ He gave a half-bow in Mavis' direction and followed his men out, carefully closing the door behind them.

Mavis gave a sigh of relief that they were gone and that she'd survived the encounter. After what she'd heard… She looked at Peter. "How could you stay so calm?"

"I've met worse than those, pet. Told th' leftenant that, too. Those boys 'ad manners. Plus, I knew we'd done no wrong, and I'd only have to get word to th' Guv'nor; _he'd've_ set 'is General on 'em. Piece o' cake." He laughed, but it sounded melancholy as he remembered Carter and how he'd _never_ said that right. _Piece of pie,_ he'd always said, because he liked pie.

He was really going to miss the others.

_________

1- second floor to Americans; our 'first floor' is the 'ground floor' in England

2 – Term sometimes used by Allied POW's, derived from the German "Kriegsgefangener" – literally "war-prisoner".


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Newkirk strolled down the street, Mavis on his arm. He was surprised by the number of people out and about, since it was still only late afternoon. According to his sister, though, this could be blamed on the dearth of jobs in this area of the city. Naturally, most seemed to be heading for the same pub that Mavis had suggested they eat at. They conversed quietly as they walked, looking for all the world like a young couple lost in each other, not two sibs, so perhaps it was a natural mistake on the boy's part.

He was scrawny, dirty, and hungry-looking. He was also nowhere near good enough to get away with picking Newkirk's pocket.

At the first brush of questing fingers, the English pickpocket spun around, grabbing the offending wrist. "'Ere, now, what's this, then?" Newkirk asked as the boy—youth, more like—struggled against his restraining grip.

"Lemme go, mister!" the would-be lightfingers snarled, but Newkirk shook his head.

"Nah. You an' me, we're goin' to 'ave a little talk. Quit your fightin', now," he warned in a lowered voice. "I 'ave two o' Germany's finest watchin' me every move; you'll not want _their_ interest, lad. Be quiet an' come along nice. I won't 'urt you, 'cause I been where I think _you_ are now. We'll go down to th' pub and 'ave a drink or two, an' a bite t' eat maybe, an' you can tell me about yourself."

The boy looked around in fright, and Newkirk thought he would die on the spot when a hard-looking man in civilian clothes headed their way. Peter looked where the boy was staring and sighed when he saw one of his shadows approaching. "All right; you've done it. Be quiet an' let me 'andle this, an' I think I can get you out of it. We're not done yet, though." He switched to soft-voiced German. _«Guten Tag._ There is nothing to worry yourself over here. Just a Mistake made, and easily corrected.»

«You are all right, _Unterfeldwebel_ Newkirk?» the man asked anyway, letting Newkirk know for sure that these men were assigned to him.

«I'm fine. Look, do you and your Mate speak or understand English?» Switching languages once more, he went on, "Stupid question; of course you do. Call 'im over; we're goin' to that pub down the street, so you two might as well come in and 'ave a pint with us. That way, I won't 'ave to tell you what we talk about, an' you two will be more comfy. And you won't draw attention by lurking about; I'm probably not the only bloke to've spotted you. You might as well; I've nothin' to 'ide."

The man hesitated a moment, then nodded and made some sort of gesture that Peter didn't quite see. The second intelligence agent saw it, though, for he came over, scowling fiercely at his partner. «What do you mean by—»

Newkirk interrupted the tirade before it could get rolling. "Enough. Sorry; I don't know your ranks. Anyway, 'e didn't give you away. I made you as soon as I left Mavis' office t'day. Now, you've 'ad a long, cold day lurking about whilst I 'ad me a nice nap—once we'd straightened out about Mavis' roommate. But it's time for a kip, so you might as well joint us for a bite. Your relief should be around soon now, anyway. Just call an' tell 'em where we'll be; or you can call once we get to the pub."

Still glowering at his partner, the second agent finally acquiesced when Peter and Mavis, and the unknown youth, headed down the street towards the pub.

It was obvious that Mavis was a regular there. The publican nodded at her with a smile as he wiped down the old mahogany bar-top. "Be wantin' your usual, then?" he called as the small group made their way across the crowded pub to a table that was just emptying.

"Sounds good, Bert," Mavis called back, watching in amusement as her brother pushed the boy in first so that he'd be pinned at the back. "We'll take a pitcher here, and a glass of milk for our young friend."

"Sorry, Mavis, luv; we're out of milk," Bert replied apologetically. "I think I might have one bottle of pop left, though."

"That will be fine," she answered as she seated herself, leaving the two outermost seats for the two Abwehr men.

"Ahhh. D'you know, I've been dreamin' of a steak an' kidney pie for two weeks now," Newkirk sighed in contentment as a barmaid set down the pitcher of beer and four mugs, then opened the soda bottle and looked expectantly at the three men at the table.

"What's good 'ere, Mavis?" Peter asked, knowing that she would know. Mavis kept a spotless home, but her cooking left a bit to be desired, even though it was edible.

"Well, I usually have the fish and chips." She paused, looking at the two Germans to see if they understood her.

"I have had that before; also the dish that Herr Newkirk mentioned," the senior agent replied. The barmaid's eyes grew huge and round as she took in the accent, but she gave no other sign that she was aware of the customer's nationality. "I would prefer some sausage and bread, if there is any," he added.

"We 'ave that, sir," the girl said, not sure if she should be angry or frightened.

"I also," the second agent said and smiled at the girl. He was on duty, though, so he went no further than that. "And you, Herr Newkirk?"

"Steak an' kidney pie, naturally," he said, making no attempt to hide his Cockney accent. "Be a luv an' bring a _large_ piece for th' lad 'ere, right, ducks? Off you go, now."

They watched her leave to place their orders; then the senior agent turned to Newkirk. "Now you will explain what this is all about. Is this boy your contact? Who will he report to?"

"Whoa, slow down," Newkirk cut in. "You've got that all wrong, mate. I've never seen this lad before t'day. I just brought 'im in 'ere to 'ave a chat with 'im. As an upstanding citizen, 'tis me duty to prevent boys from fallin' into evil ways—"

Mavis lost it there, cracking up with laughter. "Oh, Peter, you are so _full_ of it! Upstanding citizen, me arse!"

The Germans looked scandalized at her language, but Newkirk just grinned at his sister. "Your East End is showin', luv," he chided. "An' I'm a good boy these days—mostly. But there's business to see to." He stopped to take a sip from his mug, only to make a face. _"Gakkk! _I've got so used t' drinkin' German beer, I can 'ardly drink this now." He looked at his mug of warm beer unhappily, but forced himself to take another mouthful. "I'll just 'ave t' get used to it again, I s'pose…until I can import the good stuff.

"I 'aven't 'ad a chance t' tell you me plans, Mavis, but I'm goin' t' open me a pub, soon as I can find a good place. General Mann'eim, 'e gave me a bit o' money to 'elp, since 'e knew I wouldn't likely get much o' me back pay, if any. An' your Major Bachmann is givin' me a bit, weekly, too. Most likely t' keep me from supportin' meself like this lad was tryin' t' do."

"What do you mean?" the younger agent asked, very puzzled.

"Oh, just this," Peter replied, holding the man's watch out to him, and handing the other's wallet back also. "I used t' do a lot o' that when I were th' lad's age. I just do it for example now, or when I 'as to for a job. The Guv'nor finally taught me right an' wrong, where no one else could. Now I only steal on direct orders."

The boy and the two Germans goggled at him; Mavis just sighed and shook her head. "I thought our mum taught you better than that, Peter."

"She tried, pet, but the odds were against 'er.

"But that leaves us with this young lad 'ere. Do you 'ave a place to sleep regular?"

The boy looked up, his face coloring, though he kept his head up. "Lost me family in a bombin' raid, outside o' Manchester. Came up t' London t' find me uncle, but it seems he's in prison an' not gettin' out soon. They tried to put me in Juvy, but I got away from 'em."

"Right. Well, you can't stay with us; there's enough trouble there right now. You'll 'ave t' go to a shelter until I can get me new place started up; then you can 'ave a spot in the back. I'll need strong lads to 'elp with th' servin' an' such." A thought was forming in the back of Peter's mind. Everyone ignored kids, considering them only semi-intelligent, and they talked freely around them. That was a distinct possibility, once they'd gotten some training…

"He is a thief, and you would employ him?!" The German was shocked, quieting only at Newkirk's scowl.

"'Ee's stealin' 'cause 'e's 'ungry, an 'e 'as no other options. Church-run shelters aren't a good long-term solution, not for a lad, though they'll do in a pinch. That's where young—What _is_ your name, anyway?" Newkirk turned to study the boy once more.

At first he didn't answer, then, "Sid Perkins," he muttered, looking uneasily at the two Germans.

"Right. I'll take young Sidney to a shelter for th' night, but 'e'll 'elp me in lookin' for a new place tomorrow."

"Won't he run away?"

"Nah. You blokes 'ave seen 'im, an' you know 'is name. 'E won't run. Besides, 'e's not been stealin' long, an' I'm not gonna teach 'im that. I suspect 'e'd rather make an honest livin'… wouldn't you, Sid?"

"Yeah. Me mum'd have a fit, she ever caught me stealin'." The boy had a small, sad smile on his face at the thought of his mother. "I'll stay an' work for you, Mr. Newkirk."

"Right, then. An' once I 'ave a place, we'll get you properly set with th' authorities. You finish school?"

"All I mean to do," Sid answered belligerently, expecting a fight over that, but Peter just laughed.

"Oh, smooth your feathers down. There's more ways t' get an education than in a schoolroom. You'll do, lad. You'll do. He turned his attention then to chatting with his shadows, amazing Mavis with what he learned about them and their unit. They never seemed to realize that _he_ did all the learning, giving out only information about himself that was already known. At last he paused, looking towards the door and grinning. "Well, Lads, looks like your relief is 'ere." He half-rose from his seat and waved an arm, calling to get their attention: "Oy! Over 'ere!"

The two men jerked and stared in his direction, startlement, annoyance, and chagrin passing across their faces in succession. With most eyes in the pub on them, they had little choice but to approach the table directly. There was still some beer left in the pitcher; the barmaid brought two more mugs over for the newcomers, who looked for all the world like they were meeting friends by pre-arrangement. The other patrons ignored them as they settled into chairs.

"'Ave a drink, gents," Newkirk said just loudly enough to further quell suspicion around them. "You might as well," he added with a low chuckle. "Once I'm done with me dinner, I'll be takin' this lad 'ere over to a church shelter. I'm 'opin' me old shadows will escort me sister 'ome for me, on their way off-duty.

"Didja know you blokes stand out like sore thumbs? Your clothes are wrong for th' types o' men you're tryin' t' look like. I made these two as soon as I left this mornin', an' you two look just like 'em. So you might as well just come with me. I've nothin' to 'ide, an' it'll be easier on all of us. Trust me, lads: If I _wanted_ t' lose you, it'd be a piece o' cake. You'll never know this town like I do, an' I've lived th' shady side o' the law most o' me life. _And_ I've never been nabbed by th' peelers, neither.

"So 'ave a drink." He grinned as they still hesitated. "It's not German beer, more's the pity, but it'll do in a pinch. I should 'ave bought Irish, but that might 'ave caused some 'ard feelin's 'ere."

"How do _you_ know German beer?" one of the new men challenged him, barely managing to hide a scowl that would have called him a liar.

That drew a laugh. "I've spent many an evenin' in the 'Ammelburg 'Ofbrau, lad. Ever been there? No? Well, can't prove it, then. 'Ow about Düsseldorf? That were 'arder, bein' so far from camp, but we managed it a time or two."

The German was about to say something further, but he was prevented by the senior member of the original pair. "No; do not say it. He is telling the truth. Your superior has not briefed you fully, or you would know this."

"Look, mates, let's keep this friendly, right?" Newkirk said, a bit shame-faced. "I've got t' drop th' lad 'ere off somewhere 'e'll be safe t'night, then I'll be 'eadin' back t' Mavis' place. I won't be goin' anywhere until your relief comes for you. In the mornin', I'm like t' be all over London; I'm goin' t' be openin' a pub, an' I needs t' find a good place for it. I'll be talkin' t' all sorts o' people; they're not old _or_ new contacts, for I've none 'ere in England. It don't matter if you believe me or not; it's th' truth an' I'll swear _that_ on me Guv'nor's honor. That's th' strongest oath I can swear."

Mavis shook her head. "Peter, leave off. I need to get home; it's getting close to curfew, and _I_ have to observe it, even if you don't. There's a shelter over on Height Street—it's not that far from here. You can take Sid there, I should think."

"Right, luv," Newkirk agreed, rising to see his sister off with a peck on her cheek. "I'll be 'ome shortly. 'Opefully they'll 'ave gotten your roommate by then, eh?"

"I hope so," she said, feeling a bit guilty about turning another British citizen over to the Germans, but the woman _was_ a traitor and deserved punishment of _some_ sort.

The four Germans rose also, the first pair leaving with Mavis to escort her home. The second pair of Abwehr men still looked rather uncomfortable at the thought of being so open with their subject. Newkirk almost felt sorry for them.

"Look, you pair don't 'ave t' come into th' shelter wi' me. I shouldn't take too long, makin' arrangements for th' boy. We'd best go, though; Sid 'ere don't 'ave a pass for th' curfew neither."

"Mr. Newkirk, do I _have_ to go there?" the boy asked plaintively. It was the first complaint or objection he'd made to these plans, and Newkirk looked at him thoughtfully.

"It shouldn't be for too long; they'll feed you there, too, y'know."

"Yeah, I know." Sid let his voice trail off a moment. "I mean, I know it's a safe place and all…"

"But?" Peter asked, trying to sound encouraging.

"But I _hate_ being preached at all the time! If I wanted t' live wi' sermons, I'd become a priest!" he finally spat out angrily. He blushed then, worried how his future employer would view his fit of temper.

Newkirk just chuckled. "Yeah, it _can_ get kinda annoyin', at that. But come on; it's just for a few nights if we look 'ard during the day. An' maybe I can do somethin' about th' preachin' while you're there. No promises, mind," he hastened to interject at Sid's suddenly hopeful look. But the boy's smile didn't dim a bit as they, too, headed out into the winter's cold, dark evening.

Outside the pub, Newkirk looked at his shadows. "Got a car, mates? No? Then we'd best get walkin'; it's five _long_ blocks from 'ere to th' shelter."

"Oh, very well. We have a car," one of the pair grudgingly admitted. He turned down a side-street and, moments later, drove up to the curb in a fairly new Citroen.

"French, eh? LeBeau would like that," Newkirk remarked as he climbed into the back seat with Sid. He watched the traffic, slight though it was at this hour, with pleasure. It had been _so_ long since he'd done anything this…_normal._ He sighed, gave directions through several turns, and had the driver stop at last outside an old ramshackle building that managed to disguise its purpose with uninspired architecture. "Right, then; we're 'ere," he announced, then waited for the door to be opened for him. It made his shadows look like bodyguards instead of prison-guards and actually drew less notice. Keeping a firm grip on Sid's shoulder, lest the boy have a change of heart, Newkirk let them in through the front door, to be greeted by a worn-looking matron.

"How can I help you, sir?" she asked as she examined the visitors carefully. The boy was clearly off the streets. The gentleman, now—a good RAF uniform, clean, polite; he took his cap off as soon as he entered the building, and she could see a car parked out at the curb. What was this, then?

"I need a place for the boy to stay for a few nights," Newkirk explained in a carefully controlled accent, not quite upper class, but better-schooled than the average. "He'll be workin for me, once I have my business in order, but I have no safe place for him to sleep until then. Do you happen still to have room tonight, Madam?"

"I believe so," the matron answered, pulling a smile up out of her reserves for this well-spoken gentleman. "If he'd just go with Lewis," she indicated an older youth who'd come in quietly while she was talking, "he'll show…?"

"Sid," Newkirk supplied at her pause and upraised eyebrow. "The lad's name is Sid Perkins."

"Right. He'll show Sid where he can wash up, and find him some clean clothes."

"Thank you. He lost everything, including his parents, in a bombing raid, or so I was told," Newkirk said with a sigh, then paused and frowned slightly. He looked up at the matron somewhat uncertainly. "I wonder if I could ask a favor of you, Madame?"

"You can certainly _ask,"_ she replied with a small smile, then sobered. "There isn't much else we can do, though. Funds are very tight."

"No, no; nothing like that," Newkirk hastened to assure the woman. "It's just…I realize that this _is_ a church-sponsored establishment, and you _are_ doing very good work indeed. But I had a good bit of trouble convincing the lad to stay here at night until I could provide a place for him myself. It's the constant preaching, you see. Do you think it would be possible to ease off on the sermons a bit while the boy is here? I would hate to have him run off to escape those, only to get himself hurt or in trouble for being out after curfew."

She looked saddened as she nodded. "We can do that, I suppose. So _many_ no longer wish to hear the Word these days, and it grows worse daily, with the muttering on the streets."

"Ah, yes; I know _exactly_ what you mean," Newkirk agreed with a scowl. "There are those who make…other teachings sound very attractive, but they don't tell the whole story."

"You mean the Communists, don't you?" the matron said, her voice softer now, not to be overheard. "So many of the poor and dispossessed are starting to talk like them."

"Yes, but they'd don't know what actually happens when the Communists take over. It doesn't work quite like they say." Newkirk paused, not wanting to lie to this women, then sighed. "I haven't _seen_ it for myself, but I've spoken to Russian POWs in the German camps. It was truly eye-opening."

The woman looked at this RAF corporal with interest now. "That's still more first-hand than a lot of those agitators, I'd say," she commented, and paused herself. "Could you possibly wait for a few minutes, sir? I'd like to get our director to speak with you, if you don't mind." And she hurried off before Newkirk could say yea or nay, to his great amusement.

The wait wasn't long. A short man, obviously plump once, but now with sagging skin due to rapid weight loss, came in after the woman. Hope shone in his eyes. "You know something about conditions in Russia?" he asked eagerly. "The agitators on the streets talk of how good things are there now; more and more people are listening, with all of our shortages from the war. They are becoming convinced that Russia will help us shake off the Germans."

"The Russians are too busy with the Germans on the mainland, and the Japanese in the east," Newkirk said, knowing this to be the truth. "These chaps won't believe _that_, though. No, they need to think the situation through."

"Perhaps _you_ could speak to them?" the shelter director asked hopefully. "It would be a change from our preaching to them; they just ignore us."

"When?" Newkirk asked, hoping it wouldn't be too late; though what else did _he_ have to do tonight?

"We'll be serving the evening meal shortly; we usually talk to them right before that. That way they have to at least sit there; we can only hope that something gets through to them," the man said, but Newkirk could hear defeat in his voice.

"I'll speak to them, but I won't preach. And, no offense meant, but they ignore you when you're too heavy-handed about it.

"But where are they?" Newkirk added, trying to soften his criticism with a smile; the shelter directed smiled back and nodded.

"I know, but some of our guest speakers are quite…enthusiastic, shall we say? Our guests will be through here, in the refectory."

He went with them into a large, echoing room, filled with rough tables and benches and even rougher-looking men and women. They already looked totally bored, were already ignoring him. Well, he could fix that, but fast. "Good evening, my brothers and sisters," Newkirk started out in his cultured voice. "I have been asked to speak to you tonight; first, though, I thought that I should tell you a bit about myself." So far, he knew, not that different from what they usually got. "I am here to speak to you, but not about God's Word; you've already heard enough about that." He could see some look up at that departure from the usual sermon. He grinned. _"That_ got your attention, I see. Well, try this next." Here he let his natural Cockney come through. "I called ye me brothers an' sisters, 'cause that's what ye are. See, I'm from th' streets, same as you. Did some actin', so's I can talk like th' toffs when I want." He had a lot more people listening now, he saw. Good. "You're 'ere 'cause th' ruddy war knocked out yer 'omes an' yer lively'oods. An' there's those out there talkin' at you, tellin' you 'ow good Communism is, an' t' go 'throw off th' yokes o' th' oppressor.' Right, ain't I, mates?" He looked around; he had everyone's attention now. He nodded. "Yeah, it _sounds_ really good. Ev'ryone t' be sharin' ev'rything even-like, no one t' be doin' without. An' if it was a perfect world, maybe it would be like that. But these folks as been talkin' t' you, _they_ 'aven't lived it. They 'aven't seen what _really_ 'appens there. I won't lie t' ye; I ain't seen for meself neither, but I spoke t' some as 'ave. I've seen _and_ talked t' some o' them Russkies, whilst I were a POW in Germany."

"Yeah, right. They ain't sent none o' our boys back!" one woman scoffed loudly, getting many agreeing shouts.

"Actually, th' first six plane-loads o' us got in t'day—one 'ere in London, the others scattered 'round t' the old bomber bases. Fifty blokes come in wi' me; over a hundred in each o' th' others. The authorities _'ere, our_ authorities, been keepin' us out. They're not wantin' us t' be tellin' what we were seein' over there. An' th' agitators, they're not tellin' ye _where_ all these things'll be comin' from. They don't come outta thin air; they take it from those as _worked_ for it. Yeah, the rich toffs got more'n they really need, but what about you? You're 'ere 'cause the war blew up what you 'ad. 'Ow d' you think you'd feel if some Government bloke came in an' told you you 'ad t' move from some nice flat into two rooms, just 'cause you'd earned more than someone who drunk 'is pay away? Or they tell ye you can't send your kids to a better school, even though you saved for it? They just take that money away from ye." He got angry muttering at that, more than before. He looked around at his audience, meeting eyes.

"You folks are sick o' 'earin' th' sermons at places like this, but those Russkies don't _allow_ places like this, run by churches. They don't allow _churches, _period. They want t' control ev'rything in your lives. They tell ye where t' work, an' where t' live. You don't get that 'ere, now, not even under th' bloody Krauts; _they_ just want t' know where you are.

"An' tell me this: D' any o' you know 'ow t' run a factory, where t' get the materials, 'ow much it should cost, 'ow t' best get it where it needs t' be?

"Do you know where t' get th' best seed, what beasts t' breed an' 'ow t' keep 'em all 'ealthy-like? When t' plant, when t' 'arvest? "Ow much o' what t' use? Th' toffs, _they_ got th' trainin' for all that, but th' bleedin' Commies'll either kill 'em when they won't give up what _they_ worked for, or lock 'em all away. Th' Commies got land washin' down th' rivers, cause those in charge don't know 'ow t' treat it right an' proper. _They_ just know 'ow much they're told t' produce, or else they lose their cushy jobs. Yeah, ev'ryone is equal there; but _some_ are more equal than others. Just like 'ere. Only there, you 'ave t' belong t' their party, like th' bleedin' Nazis, or you don't get ahead."

He stopped to let them think that much over; then hit them with the last argument he had. "Tell me this, chums: What do ya do when you want t' get the missus a bit o' somethin' special?" He paused, then nodded. "Ya work a bit over, or pick up the odd job for a bit o' extra money. But ya can't do that under th' Commies, mates; ev'ryone gets his pay, whether ya work 'arder or not. If th' bloke next t' ya just does what 'e 'as to, an' no more, 'e'll get th' same pay as th' one as does as much as 'e can. An' so they're short o' the necessities, an' stand in lines just like you do 'ere, only th' stuff they _do_ make is shoddy, 'cause it don't matter 'ow much, or 'ow good you do, you get th' same pay." He stopped, looking at their stunned faces.

"They didn't tell you _that_ on th' streets, did they?" He looked over them, letting them mutter for a few minutes. "Nah. _They_ want ye t' rise against th' Krauts an' maybe take some o' th' pressure off Russia. They don't care if you get shot, or if your kids get shot. They don't care if you go without food 'cause you've wrecked the transport system. Or that you don't 'ave clothes or blankets, 'cause you bombed th' factories. Things are getting' better in Europe, 'cause the French an' Belgians are workin' again. Th' Krauts are usin' POWs what can't go 'ome again t' work the farms and t' do some factory work.

"But they shoot th' troublemakers an' Commie agitators, an' they let the churches do what they do best: 'elp those as needs th' 'elp. They're even leavin' th' Jews alone, somethin' Commies _won't_ do, mark my words.

"But you just think on what I've said. An' _if_ you figure I'm right, there's somethin' you can do t' 'elp. These Commies, they're right 'ard t' find; they 'ide in among all th' rest o' ye. If ye decide that ye want t' keep what ye earn, turn their names in t' th' authorities. Me, I 'ad a 'ard time, learnin' that sometimes ye can actually trust those with power, but I've also learned that those as _steal_ power an' authority don't be too eager t' give it up again. Th' only way they can be stopped is if all o' us work t'gether. Talk t' your friends an' neighbors, let 'em know th' truth too.

"An if ye don't want t' go t' th' Krauts yourselves, well, maybe th' director o' this place will pass it on t' me, an' I'll do th' dirty work for ye. That's all I wanted t' say t' ye, save that we ain't never give up before this, an' I don't think we will now: we'll keep what's ours, despite what the Commies want t' do t' us."

Newkirk turned away, amazed at himself. He'd never been one for speeches before this; he'd not thought himself capable of such a talk as that. The Colonel had caused him to change in ways he'd never suspected. He made his way out to the front lobby, then waited for the shelter's superintendent to catch up to him. Peter looked at the little man, and held up one hand before the other could speak. "I'm sorry t' 'ave 'id where I come from, but I meant what I said in there. I 'ope you'll pass on any names they might give ye; if they're innocent, they won't be 'armed. The Krauts got rid o' th' worst of their scum, when they gutted th' Gestapo after killin' old Hitler. We're dealin' with th' Abwehr 'ere; they're Military Intelligence, an' decent as that kind goes. Whatever 'appens, send th' lad t' me at this address in th' mornin', it's where I'm stayin', with me sister. I appreciate ye takin' Sid in; 'ere's a bit t' 'elp with your expenses." So saying, Newkirk passed ten pound over to the now-speechless director, and headed out into the cold winter night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It was a dreary, drizzly Wednesday, just the sort of day best spent in bed. Still, Peter forced himself up to share a breakfast of tea and toast with Mavis before she had to leave for work. He had seen her off and had just settled in front of the coal grate when a hesitant tapping came at the door. After some minimal grumbling, he answered it, to find Sid there, peering nervously over his shoulder at the landing every few seconds.

Newkirk looked that way also, but saw nothing. He smiled warmly at the boy. "C'mon in, Sid. I'll be ready t' go in a flash." He urged the boy into the flat and looked at him again. Not a bad-looking lad, now that he had clean clothes on. "You 'ave breakfast?"

"Yessir, Guv'nor," Sid answered, something like awe in his eyes. "Here; the director give me this for you." He held out a set of folded papers and waited quietly while Newkirk looked them over, then read the accompanying note.

"Cor!" he breathed at last and looked over at Sid again. "Looks like I _did_ get through to 'em."

"Was you really a POW, like you said?" Sid asked, clearly not believing this.

"Oh, yeah; I were that, right enough." Newkirk chuckled a moment, then sobered and looked at Sid again. "Thing is, lad, that weren't _all_ we were. An' it's lookin' like I'm gettin' back into that business again. Could be dangerous. Still, it's good work, an' England will benefit by it. You still want t' work for me? You'll see a good bit o' th' Krauts if you do."

"You workin' for 'em?"

"Not really. Oh, they'll stand t' benefit some, too, but me, I work for th' Guv'nor—Colonel 'Ogan, that is, an' the best CO I ever served with. Just 'cause _he's_ tied to a Kra…German now, well, that's besides the point. The General's a good man, too, even if he _is_ a German. 'E got us 'ome, 'e did, and more t' come after us.

"An' 'e _hates_ the bleedin' Commies as much as th' colonel does. So. You still want t' work for me? You'll 'ave a lot t' learn, if you do. Startin' with German _and_ Russian. French'd be good, too. An' 'ow t' speak low like me, an' 'igh like a toff…an' lots o' other things. I _won't_ be teachin' ye t' steal, though. You up for it?"

"Yessir, Guv'nor," Sid vowed, and hero-worship shone in his eyes like a radiant beacon.

All Newkirk could do was sigh and shake his head. "All right, then; let's go. First stop is back to 'Eadquarters an' Major Bachmann's office. An' don't worry about th' shadows; they won't 'hurt ye."

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

The cold drizzle made the walk unpleasant, but Newkirk had been out in worse weather and no doubt would be again. He did make a mental note to get himself an umbrella, and dress regulations be damned; he'd spent enough time wet in the service. Thinking that he _should_ be flying over this stuff in an airplane, he and the boy arrived at the building now housing one branch of Intelligence. Into the lobby they went, and Newkirk planted Sid in a chair off to one side with instructions to watch the people passing by him and listen to whatever conversations he could make out. He could report his findings to Newkirk later, while they prowled London together. The boy sat, clearly thinking that this was just something to occupy him while waiting, not realizing that his training had already begun.

Newkirk wandered over to the receptionist in the lobby. "'Ey, there, pet," he crooned, very unmilitarily, and catching a glare from the private on duty. "Be a luv an' call up t' Major Bachmann's Office, would ye? Tell 'im that th' Bear's Cub is on 'is way up t' see 'im if 'e's got th' time."

She glared at him angrily. "I don't know where you think you are, _Corporal,_ or what you've had to drink today already, but we don't have time to play such childish games here."

"No; _you _listen to _me,_ Missy," he snarled back. "You make that call t' th' major an' tell 'im just what I said, or you'll be deeply sorry you didn't. And in case you 'aven't noticed, I outrank you. So make th' call. _Now!"_ Yes, he'd definitely been around the colonel too much…which reminded him of something else. He looked back at the sullen private and not-quite-sneered, "An' don't you be callin' anyone _else,_ or even _tellin'_ anyone else about this visit. You understand me, _Private?"_

She didn't answer, just picked up her phone to place the call, in an obvious sulk. "Major Bachmann, please… Yes, sir. Sir, there's a corporal down here who says he wants to see you… something about a bear's cub… Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" Suddenly several shades paler than she'd been, she put down her phone and looked at Newkirk with frightened eyes. "The major said to go on up, sir," she told him, no longer caring that his uniform proclaimed him a mere corporal. Obviously, this man was a lot more. And it sounded as if it would be worth her life, never mind just her job, ever to cross him again. Bloody Krauts.

Newkirk just nodded and headed for the rear stairway. He wasn't quite ready to confront Mavis' supervisor yet. That would come in due time.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

Bachmann's door was cracked open when Newkirk got there. He tapped lightly on it, was greeted with a softly spoken _"Hierin," _and entered, carefully closing the door behind himself. Bachmann looked at him curiously, but waited to see what this Englander was up to now.

"Thought you'd be interested in these, sir," Peter said as he handed over the list of names. "I, uh… addressed th' folks at a 'omeless shelter last night—that's a long story, actually—but I were tellin' 'em about th' evils o' Communism an' asked for their 'elp. Got these names this mornin' an' figured it'd give ye a place t' start. I knows one or two of 'em; it's the sort o' line they'd go for, seein' as 'ow they don't _want_ t' work; they'd think they wouldn't 'ave to, under the Commies."

"I am… speechless," Bachmann breathed as he looked over the lists more carefully, and the accompanying note. "You have been here one day, and already you have produced more useful information than agents who have been in place for months." He looked up at Newkirk. "What will you do, once you are… how do you say it… 'back in the swing of things'? Very well done, _Unterfeldwebel._ Very well done indeed—not that you crave _my_ praise."

"It's always good t' be appreciated, Major," Newkirk replied diplomatically. Actually, it was true. And this Jerry officer didn't seem to be overly concerned about protocol or "proper" procedures. He wasn't the Guv'nor, but he might be tolerable. "I'd best go, sir," Peter said quietly, edging back towards the door. "I've a lot o' territory t' cover t'day."

"Very well; you may go." Bachmann softened that dismissal with a grin, as if to say he couldn't hold the Englander there if he wished to leave—which was only the truth, if he hoped for more such windfalls of information in the future.

But Newkirk came to attention and gave him a proper salute before turning for the door and his next task: finding a site for his pub.

He thought about locations as Sid and he left the Intelligence building behind them. Nothing too expensive, but it couldn't be too out-of-the-way, either. He had considered the theater district, but competition there would be fierce. Property down by the river and the docks would be cheap, but the clientele he'd get there would be far from savory. If he hoped to gather intelligence, he needed to be near the government buildings, but not too close. He needed people to feel that they were far enough away from surveillance that they would grow careless. He would love to find someplace in the Old City, but that wouldn't really work, either. No, it would have to be in one of the districts that had had a lot of industry, someplace that had been fairly hard-hit by the war. Someplace that would begin rebuilding soon and would have lots of people coming and going.

He stopped frequently, just to talk to people about life in London during the war, until he could get a feel for the city again. The morning papers had had pictures and articles about the arrival of the POWs, despite attempts by the British authorities to block the news. The _German_ authorities had instructed the papers to publish, so publish they had. When the people learned that Newkirk was one of those returned sons of England, the floodgates of information burst open. Before noon he had several tempting leads to follow up and was even more hopeful in his plans.

Finally, in the fading light of late afternoon, he stood before what he _hoped_ would be the perfect spot. It was in a light industrial area—or what had been one. Few buildings were totally unscathed, but this block had been lucky. Windows were gone, shattered by nearby blasts, but the structures themselves looked sound. Best of all, there were "For Sale" signs on the properties he was most interested in.

There was an old pub on the corner, long out of business. Facing the main street to the left was a newer office building. It would need major renovation, but the ground floor could probably be turned into a small dinner theater, with small flats on the upper floors. Around the corner from the pub, on the narrower side street, was an old moderate-sized warehouse, perfect for storing supplies—if the roof was still sound.

The site was on one of the regular bus routes, between a group of government offices and a residential area, so he could hope to get such workers stopping off on their way home. Or, at least they'd see the place and hopefully come back later. So Newkirk wrote down the realtor's information, to Sid's amazed shock, and headed back for their own night's meal and shelter. Tomorrow, he hoped, would be the beginning of many busy days as he renovated and restored the buildings for his own use.

Oh, yes. He was a son of Olde England, but he was also a Bear's Cub, and always would be, now.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Good day, sir; what might I do for you?" The realtor's clothes had definitely seen better days, as had his office. One front window was boarded over; the other merely had a crack from one top corner to the middle of the bottom. But the man's desk was free of clutter, and, barring a gouge on one edge, was perfectly maintained, gleaming with fresh wax. Newkirk smiled at him.

"I'm interested in some property that you appear to be handling," he said, carefully masking his accent once more. No one would take him seriously if he let his "East End" out. Bad enough that he had to stay in uniform; civvies would have been better for this. "Your name and address were listed on the 'For Sale' signs posted there."

"Certainly, sir. Please, have a seat," the man…well, he didn't _quite_ gush, but he wasted no time pulling a chair out, carefully dusted, for Newkirk. "My name is Alistair Hobley. Now, then, which property were you interested in, Mr…?" He paused delicately for Peter to give his name if he cared to.

"Newkirk, sir," he readily responded. "Peter Newkirk. Sergeant, RAF. Haven't had a chance to change my stripes yet." He gave a mental sigh; he _was_ going to have to change to those American-type stripes, to show the proper rank. This was too confusing, although that would be also. "Just got back the day before yesterday."

"Oh!" the realtor blinked, sitting straighter. "You were one of the men who flew in from Germany? Welcome back, Sergeant." His smile was broader, if that were possible. "I have many _fine_ properties to show, Sergeant; the war was hard on our men, as you know; many families who had multiple properties can no longer maintain them all now."

"Actually, I'm not looking for anything residential at the moment," Peter said, leaning back in his chair. This was a trick he'd seen powerful people use; it said that they were confident that everything would go their way, that _they_ held all the winning cards. "I'm looking for some business sites."

"Oh, I see," Hobley said, looking somewhat disappointed. He tried to hide his reaction and continued. "I _do_ have some business-type properties, but, I'm sorry to say, they're not in the best of condition, or in the better areas. Still, I'll be more than happy to show them to you. Which did you wish to see?"

And so the dance began. "I was interested in obtaining a small- to moderate-sized warehouse," Newkirk began, knowing better than to show his true interest. "I saw that you had one listed on…"

—**o–o–O–o–o—**

Thirty minutes later, they were walking around the inside of the warehouse. The building was in better shape than Newkirk could have hoped for, although the electric was very poor. That would be easy to correct, though; all they'd need to do was rewire the building. The roof, surprisingly, was sound. He nodded, quite pleased.

"This is very nice; I believe that it will suit admirably," Newkirk said, watching Hobley carefully. For some reason, the man looked relieved. "Now, what _aren't_ you telling me about this building?"

The realtor stopped in his tracks and seemed about to protested, then looked past Newkirk's shoulder and paled. Newkirk back up a step and risked a quick glance, then smiled. "Don't pay them any mind," he said with a chuckle. "You've nothing to fear from them, so long as you're honest… You _are_ honest, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Newkirk. Yes indeed," the poor man babbled, reminding Newkirk a bit of old Klink. "It's just… The former owner was arrested for espionage."

"Is that all?" Newkirk almost laughed. "I couldn't possibly be connected to him, then. I've been a POW in Germany, under strict guard. I doubt that I'd know whoever it was…was he spying _for_ or _against _Germany, by the way?"

"Against Germany," Hobley answered, so softly that Newkirk could barely hear him. One of Newkirk's shadows knew, though.

«We have been keeping an Eye on this Warehouse for Months, _Herr_ Newkirk, hoping to get the rest of his Network. We believe that they actually worked for the Russians.»

«Really?"» Newkirk looked surprised, then interested. «Maybe it's a good Thing I want this Place, then. I might have more Luck sniffing them out.»

The poor realtor grew even paler as he heard his customer speaking fluent German with an obvious intelligence agent. He looked as if he was about to pass out when Newkirk turned to look back at him. "'Ey, now, easy there, mate," he said as he got a steadying grip on the man's arm. "It's all right. 'E's not gonna 'urt ye." Newkirk paused and then sighed as he realized what the realtor now thought. "Yeah, I speak German," he admitted. "I learned in Germany, when I were spyin' on th' Krauts. They know all about it, mate; it's why I got shadows wi' me. They just want t' know who I'm seein'; it don't mean _you're_ under suspicion. 'Ere; why don't you just sit right 'ere on this nice crate, 'til ye get your balance back. Steady, now; take a good breath, right?"

"You're a spy?" Hobley croaked out in shock, once his brain started to work once more.

"I _used to be _a spy," Newkirk corrected him. "Did a good bit o' sabotage, too, tryin' t' slow down th' Germans. They caught me mates an' me, right at the end o' th' war. So now they watch me, t' make sure I behave meself like I swore I would.

"I just want t' get me somethin' t' support meself an' me sister. Somethin' _honest._ The last thing I want t' do is get into more trouble. I'd really like t' buy this place, though."

`"All right; I can get the papers together; you'll just have to settle with the…bank…" Hobley trailed off as he realized that Newkirk's accent had changed. He shook his head, deciding that he really didn't want to know any more than he already did. Somehow, he doubted that this Newkirk would have any trouble with his financing. "You're rather lucky, Mr. Newkirk. Due to all the damage in this area, this warehouse won't be all that expensive, at least not right now. Once the area starts rebuilding, though, that's bound to change." He named a figure, actually hoping that this "sergeant" wouldn't balk at it; it was as low as he could possibly go, as low as he knew the bank would let him go.

"Sounds fair enough," Newkirk told him; he'd seen what such property was going for elsewhere and doubted that he could get a better price anywhere else. "What else d' you 'ave available near 'ere, that I could make a livin' with?"

"Well…" Hobley paused for thought. Newkirk had found this out-of-the-way warehouse; if he'd really been a spy, he surely would have seen… "There's a very nice old public house on the corner of the lane, sir. The owner's son was killed in the Battle of Britain; the owner himself died shortly after that, and none of the rest of the family was interested. Seems like the second wife thought it was too much bother. It's been closed for over two years, now; it's offered with all fittings and whatever is left in stock. There are rooms upstairs, for the owner, or…whatever. I have the keys to that, and the next three buildings on the block also, but those need a good bit of work to make them usable." In for a penny, in for a pound, Hobley thought. Either Newkirk could pay, or he couldn't. But if he could, it would be so nice actually to sell something here. And maybe it would be the push needed to get this area rebuilding.

—**o–o–O–o–o—**

"Mavis, you 'ome, luv?" Newkirk called as he let himself into the flat. He was well pleased with the way his day had gone. Even though he'd stopped hiding his true accent, everyone, even at the bank, dealt fairly with him. Of course, with Tweedledee and Tweedledum as his shadows, no one with any sense would give him any trouble.

"That you, Peter?" Mavis' voice came from her bedroom, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like a sniff.

"Who else would it be? What's wrong, pet?" Newkirk asked, leaning against the side of her door.

"Oh, it's nothing, really," she began, then sighed and looked up into her brother's eyes. "It's just that beastly Leftenant Harrow," she admitted, knowing from past experience that he'd seen right through her attempted subterfuge. _"He_ claimed that I intentionally ignored a whole stack of work, making him unprepared for a meeting, but I swear, Peter, those papers _weren't_ on my desk this morning. Either he, or someone for him, put them there when I went to the loo this afternoon. He had me sent home, on disciplinary action, until he can get me finally relieved of duty."

"I doubt that'll 'appen, luv," he tried to soothe his distraught sister, then paused. "An' even if it does, it won't matter. I found th' perfect spot for me pub, Mavis; bought it this afternoon, along with a warehouse to the rear, an' _two_ buildings alongside. If they fire you, I'll 'ave plenty 'o work for us both.

"But I think it's past time for me t' be callin' on ol' Archie. Meanwhile, I've another call t' make. So you dry them eyes and fix your makeup; once I've dealt wi' _this,_ we're goin' out to' celebrate."

Still sniffling slightly, she nodded and headed for the bathroom to freshen up as he'd suggested. She was surprised with herself; she _wasn't _a sniveler. All through the war, she'd been the strength every other girl in her department drew from, the comforting one. But now that the worst was over, and Peter was home once more—_now_ she cried over nothing…well, next to nothing, anyway. How ridiculous was that? And all because of that worm, Leftenant Harrow. Well, Peter would fix _him_ right and proper, or she didn't know her brother. Archibald wouldn't know what had hit him.

Peter stepped out to confront one of his shadows. They weren't across the street anymore; now they sat in the front entryway, out of the worst of the cold. Newkirk was correct, they'd decided; if he wanted to lose them, they wouldn't stand a chance. So it was very easy for Newkirk to find them.

«Call Headquarters, would you? I need to speak with Major Bachmann, preferably _before_ he leaves Today. It would be best if _he_ called _me,_ right now.» Newkirk turned and went back up the stairs to Mavis' flat without waiting for an answer. He had no doubts that his message would get through, without Harrow even hearing about it.

It was only about ten minutes later that the phone rang—being military, Mavis had to have one in case of call-backs or other emergencies. She picked up the handset, responding with her number, and was greeted with a moment of surprised silence. Then: "Is _Unterfeldwebel _Piotr there, Fräulein?"

"Piotr? …Oh, yes, he's here. One moment, please." She handed the receiver to her brother, who'd apparently been expecting this call, but had not been quick enough to answer it himself.

"Peter here," he answered, having heard Mavis.

"What can I do for you, _Unterfeldwebel?"_

It was Bachmann's voice. "I 'aven't 'ad time t' run that rat 'Arrow t' ground yet, but somethin' needs t' be done about 'im. 'E's got Mavis in a right state, sent 'er 'ome early. Th' blighter's tryin' t' frame 'er, sayin' she's not doin' 'er work. I'll not 'have it, d'ye 'hear me?"

"Calm yourself, _Unterfeldwebel,"_ Bachman replied, not all that surprised to be having this conversation, since the paperwork related to the incident had already crossed his desk, brought in personally by said _Leutnant._ "I am aware of the situation. You may tell _Obergefreiter_ Newkirk that she may come to work in the morning; I am…investigating the situation. I am _also_ investigating our good _Leutnant _Harrow and am finding some very interesting things, indeed. It is well that you alerted me to him; it seems he is working for two masters, and I do _not _mean the English.

"Is she all right, _Unterfeldwebel?"_

"She will be. Thanks for askin'. I'm takin' 'er out t'night. I bought me pub t'day, so it's time t' celebrate. Your lads'll 'ave all the details, I expect." Oddly, it was like with the Guv'nor, Newkirk thought; he found himself calming more the longer he talked to Bachman.

"That will be good for her, I believe. Come see me in the morning—perhaps you will escort the Fräulein in?"

"Yeah, I think so, Herr Major. I think so. I'll see you in th' mornin', then." And Newkirk was actually smiling when he hung up the phone. "All right, luv," he said, turning to Mavis. "Time t' go out. Where's a good place, with dancin' an' such, where me shadows can come in, too? Be criminal to leave 'em out in th' cold, good lads like them."

"Are you sure, Peter? I mean, I'll have to watch my money, now," Mavis began to protest, but Newkirk cut her off with a grin.

"Don't you worry; you've still got a job. Major Bachmann sounded none to pleased wi' Archie. I'm to come in wi' you in th' mornin'. Should be interestin', eh? But, tonight's _my_ big night; last free one I'll 'ave 'til I open. So let's do it right, shall we?"

She giggled at his waggling eyebrows and nodded. Yes, tonight _would_ be a night to celebrate, it seemed. Peter home, pub found—and Harrow soon to be dealt with. A very good night, indeed.

—**o–o–O–o–o—**

«So, Tellermann, have you unearthed who it was, exactly, that thought that Leutnant Harrow should work in this Department?» Major Bachmann was _not_ in a good mood. It sat very ill with him to allow _any_ man under his command to take such a tone with him, but he had received very explicit…_suggestions_…on how to deal with then-Corporal Newkirk. So far, they had been spot-on, as these British would say. As long as it worked, he would tolerate the brash Cockney, for he would be impossible to control if he decided not to coöperate anymore. It just meant that other underlings, ones with no recourse, caught the backlash of his ire.

And, truthfully, Newkirk wasn't aware that he really _was_ under Bachmann's command. Or so the German believed; who knew _what_ the _Englander_ thought. But he bore a bondsman's tattoo, and further inquiries revealed that he was listed as one of General Mannheim's bondsmen, on "detached assignment" in England. And he, Bachmann, was his handler-of-record. _Gott_ help him if Newkirk ever found out, for he would go through the roof.

Still, poor _Unteroffizier_ Tellermann was catching his anger, totally undeserving. She was one of the few women to have come to England with his unit; she had been one of his unit's secretaries for years now, and she was _very_ good at finding interesting bits of information in records that others thought safely buried. Almost as good as the Bear's Cubs were reported to be. She was the daughter of a military man, and rumor said that she herself was married to the service. Bachman suspected that she just hadn't yet found the man who could understand her.

She stood straight under the lash of his tongue, totally unruffled, waiting for his black mood to ease. It always did, eventually. And, yes, his eyes were clearing now. Good. «I found that a Lieutenant Colonel Blackthorne signed the Orders,» she said, «but I felt that _he _was just a Lackey for someone else, so I dug deeper. I found some classified Correspondence in a File Case in one of the lower Storage Rooms, between this Blackthorne…who is in Personnel Assignments…and a Colonel Cummings from Finance, recommending Harrow as a … '_good, hard Worker; a Man who can be trusted_.' This made me even more Curious, mein Major: What was someone in Finance doing, recommending a Man for a Position in Intelligence?»

«What, indeed, O my Finder of Facts and Curiosities,» Bachmann said, intrigued now. Lottie Tellermann had a way of catching his attention and interest like no one else. «What Track did _that_ lead you down, Lottie?»

She smiled, knowing that he was pleased with her so far; he only let discipline slip when he felt she'd done exceedingly well. «I checked Colonel Cummings' financial Records, mein Major. Does it surprise you to learn that he has a…slight Gambling Problem? Oh, he has never, to my Knowledge—now considerable, I might add—touched any of the Funds which he must manage for the Government. Still, this has left him open to outside Influences. I believe that he recommended Harrow as a…'Favor' to close some of his Debts. I have not found Proof of this, as yet.»

«I think that we will have him brought in for Questioning tonight,» Bachmann mused, then looked up. «See that the proper Orders are given, Lottie. I fear that I shall have a long Worknight tonight, while others play.»

_«Zu Befehl, Herr Major,»_ she said, her eyes bright with anticipation. She loved it when her theories were proven correct.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

"Pity 'e didn't give you th' day off, Mavis," Newkirk joked as his sister finished dressing for work. "We could o' 'ad a long weekend of it. Now you'll 'ave t' wait 'til t'morrow t' see me new place."

"It's not going to go away, at least," she teased back, but she felt some regret also. This meant so much to Peter, she knew, so that she _did_ want to see his new property and hear all of his plans. He'd walk her through it, step by step, the way that he'd done with his daydreams when they'd been children. Only now he was actually realizing those dreams. She supposed she shouldn't tease him about it.

"Oh, I know that, Mavis," he replied with a grin. "But you'd best 'urry, or Major Bachmann might change 'is mind about you keepin' that job."

"I'm almost ready," she said, walking out of the bathroom. These days it was easy to get ready; cosmetics were so hard to come by, and the military frowned on excessive makeup anyway. Thank God she'd not had to be a shop-girl; she had no idea how those poor girls managed to keep up their appearances.

Newkirk had already put on his coat and hat; now he held Mavis' coat out, ready for her to slip into it. One last check around the flat to make sure all lights were out, then they were out the door, and he was locking it behind them.

Newkirk looked at the agent who waited at the foot of the stairs for them. «Don't you get _any_ Time off, mate?» he asked, for he was one of the two who'd "gone out" with them the previous evening.

But the man just smiled. «I volunteered for this Morning; last Night was too much fun to count as Work, Unterfeldwebel.» Then, switching to English, "How are you thiz _Morgen,_ _Fräulein _Newkirk?" he asked, giving Mavis a polite half-bow. "I havf a car outside, so you should not havf to valk thiz morning. It iz kvite (quite) cold out."

"Why, thank you…I'm sorry; I'm afraid that I don't know your name."

He saw that Mavis looked upset over this, something which was not to be borne. "I am _Stabsgefreiter_ Artur Strobl, Fräulein; _Gefreiter_ Bruno Hirschfeld is waiting in the car _für_ us," he offered helpfully. And Newkirk knew, even if Mavis didn't, that here was a smitten man. He wasn't sure what he thought about that; better, perhaps, just to wait and see. Mavis had a stubborn streak if you told her _not_ to do something.

Strobl held the door for the sibs, then went ahead and opened the rear door of the waiting car. Grinning, Peter handed his sister in, then followed, trying not to feel odd at such treatment.

He settled back to wait out the ride, grateful that they didn't have to walk all that way or wait for a bus, since it was indeed another cold, drizzly day. And he'd thought that the weather in Germany was bad, he reflected with a dry mental snort. At least _there_ it had the decency to snow, instead of this infernal rain and damp.

Traffic was still fairly light, mostly just official vehicles. Petrol was still closely rationed; only military vehicles—_German _military—and farm trucks bringing produce into the cities got any decent amounts of fuel. He could understand that; the farm trucks were necessary now, what with the mess the Luftwaffe had made of the rail lines once Hitler had been gotten rid of. Attacking London hadn't done much more than make people angry, determined to fight harder. Once the rabid Nazis had been removed, however, factories and rail lines, gasworks and petrol tank farms had been targeted. _That_ had hurt the war effort, and it had finally brought England to her knees. Defiance only did any good if you had something to fight with.

But services were being slowly restored; luxuries like personal cars were starting to be seen once more, if still rarely. He didn't really miss all the traffic with its exhaust fumes. Just the buses now sent out bluish clouds, and the few taxis weren't quite as bad.

Finally at Intelligence, the car pulled up to the curb, and Strobl opened the door for them. To Peter's surprise, he followed them into the building, staying fairly close to Newkirk's heels. Peter thought about this, but decided not to say anything. He didn't want to upset Mavis needlessly; time enough for that if something were actually up.

No additional guards waited inside, however, so Newkirk tried to relax. They made their way through the reception area, receiving surprised stares. Peter smiled grimly; how fast the office grapevine ran. He caught the eye of the female private at the front desk as she was reaching for her phone, and shook his head slightly; the girl pulled her hand back as if it had been burned.

Up the main stairway today, not the back ones; Newkirk was out for a confrontation with "Archie." He'd get one, one way or another. Surprisingly, Johann, Bachmann's young aide, was waiting in the corridor when they got up to Mavis' floor. He grinned, then ducked inside the major's office, although Bachmann did not come out immediately.

The background chit-chat died as Mavis walked into the large room that she worked in. A stranger sat at her desk; without a moment's pause, Mavis marched over to her. "You're sitting at my desk, pet. _Move_…please." The courtesy was definitely a last-moment addition.

The woman, a bleached blonde wearing _'way_ too much eye makeup, looked up in surprise. _"Your_ desk? But Archie said…"

_"Archie_ was wrong. Be a good girl and _move,_ luv, before _I_ move you." Mavis glanced down at the files on the desk, and her anger rose. "And what are you doing with those files?" she demanded. "Don't bother telling me _you_ have the clearance for them; _I_ don't even have that. No one in this room does. Those files shouldn't even be out here. Close them up. _Now."_

"Here now; what's all this?" The Voice of Authorityhad arrived, or so he apparently thought of himself. Archibald Harrow strode through the door into the office, not seeing either Newkirk or Strobl where they stood, back against the wall to either side of the doorway. Harrow stopped in his tracks, his hands on his hips at the sight of Mavis. "I told _you_ to go home, Corporal Newkirk," he growled. "I made it quite plain that you were through here. Now get out!"

"Oh, I don't think so, Archie," Newkirk sneered as he moved forward. "Mavis ain't goin' anywhere. _You_ ain't takin 'er job from 'er, neither. Just what d' you think you're doin', pickin' on me sister, eh?"

"Your sister…Peter…What are _you_ doing here?" Harrow tried desperately to cover his shock, trying to plan what to do about the debacle his plans had become. He couldn't offer him a piece of the action, not there and then, with all those witnesses, and especially not with a German in the room with them.

"I'd say I were comin' 'ome just in time, I would." Newkirk stopped his threatening advance as he felt another presence behind him in the doorway. Judging by the sound of Strobl coming to attention, he guessed that it would be Major Bachmann.

"Here, now, Peter," Harrow tried to bluster his way out of this corner. "You can't be in here; you don't have the proper clearances—"

"Oh, try another one, Archie," Newkirk scoffed. "I have 'igher clearance than _you_ do; I've already checked. Now get your doxy out o' me sister's seat… an' leave those ruddy files right where they are. What's _she_ doin' wi' them, anyway?"

"I have no idea," Harrow began, but the blonde cut him off with an unhappy cry.

"Archie, don't you remember?" she pouted, looking even dumber than before. "You _gave_ them to me. You said to copy all those letters and numbers, and to be really carefully not to mix them up. _I_ don't see what difference it would make; none of them make any sense anyway."

"And how much have you done, _Fräulein_?" Bachmann asked from behind Newkirk.

The girl looked down and sighed. "I only got partway down the first page. Then _she_ came in and tried to make me move." She shot hate-filled daggers at Mavis with her eyes at that, but those eyes then softened again to a puppy-like innocence as she looked back over at the men. "Archie said he could get me a steady job if I could get this all copied today."

"That's…very interesting, _Fräulein_." Bachmann fought to keep his voice steady. _"Obergefreiter_ Newkirk, why don't you show this _Fräulein _to the lounge for a few moments—do _not_ claw her eyes out; this is not her fault, I think. I wish to speak to _Leutnant_ Harrow for a few moments."

Harrow was looking around as if trying to find a safe way to bolt. Newkirk reached out and removed the Leftenant's pistol before the man realized what the Cockney intended. Still, Harrow tried to break for the corridor, only to be brought down by Strobl. Peter wondered where he'd thought to hide, now that England was occupied by the Germans. Still, Archie was handcuffed in no time flat and dragged out of the room.

Bachmann looked down the hallway, then back to Newkirk, and Mavis' desk. Finally he sighed, then gave Newkirk a grin that was half-scowl. _"Unterfeldwebel,_ gather up those papers and files if you would, reading as few as possible. Then bring them to my office. I have some unpleasant business to attend to, and then I must see to your sister and _her_ prisoner."

"Right, then, Major," Newkirk snapped out, mostly to see what Bachmann's reaction would be. The German stiffened and nearly winced at the apparent lack of respect, but said nothing, only turning and leaving to see about his own damage-control efforts.

With a roguish chuckle, Peter set to work at his assigned task.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

Newkirk was sitting in Bachmann's office when the German returned. He said nothing at first, just nodded at the stack of files on the desk and at the one file sitting to the side. The major looked sharply at him, for the _Englander_ did not rise in respect when he entered the room, but a look at that folder told the tale.

"So," Bachmann sighed as he went around his desk and settled in his chair. "Now you know."

"It's a good thing you took so long gettin' back 'ere," Peter said as he gazed off into the far corner of the room. "It gave me time t' calm down some. Let me guess: It were th' only way 'Igh Command would risk turnin' Louis an' me loose, right? Only _they_ thought we'd be kept close, th' way th' Guv'nor is, not that Mann'eim would turn us out on our own like this."

"I do not have all the details, but I would say that is a fairly accurate guess," the major agreed carefully. "I was supposed to be keeping an eye on you; it helped that you seemed able to tolerate me. Now? I think all bets are off."

"You plannin' on changin' th' way you're dealin' wi' me? Now that I know th' truth, I mean."

"Not especially," Bachmann said, but he still didn't relax in his seat. "What is that saying? 'If it works, don't fix it'? You would not react well to heavy-handed control; I was told this, and I have seen it for myself. I will eventually cut down your escorts, as planned, and as I have already told you.

"Do you feel the need for anything else to change, Newkirk?"

"That's why the check-ins an' travel-checks. I knew this deal was too good to be true." Peter looked the major straight in the eyes when he said this, and his green eyes were hard and cold.

"Those are the same requirements that all former commandos must meet, as well as former Resistance members. They are not specific to you, _Unterfeldwebel."_ Somehow Bachmann managed to stay calm; this interview could turn ugly very easily. "General Mannheim was quite specific in his instructions for your handling: You are to be allowed as much freedom of action as possible, with as little direct supervision as is also consistent with operational security. This I feel that I have done. You had no complaints before you found that file, did you?"

Newkirk finally sighed and slumped in his chair. "No. An' that's wot I finally realized, once I'd calmed down a bit. Bloody 'Arrow an' 'is bloody spyin'."

"Leftenant Harrow is being dealt with," Bachmann said, his voice now cold. "He is a bully and a coward; already he turns on his contacts and masters. Your sister need not worry about him any longer."

"Oh, blimey! _Mavis!"_ Peter exclaimed, then was up like a shot and out of Bachmann's office without so much as a by-your-leave. A moment later, his head popped back through the door. "Dismissed, sir?" he asked, somewhat shamefaced.

Shaking his head, Bachmann couldn't help laughing. _"Ja,_ go on. You are—" But Newkirk had already vanished again.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Mavis had been welcomed back into her office with wide smiles as she'd reclaimed her desk. Newkirk had hovered around her until he'd been sure she was situated, then finally, reluctantly, had taken his leave. The blonde, he'd been given to understand, would be sent to a non-sensitive office to work, since she had accepted Harrow's offer in good faith.

Now he was getting out of the car at the Height Street Shelter, for he had no intentions of leaving Sid to his own devices for too long. Truthfully, one full day of neglect may have proven too long, but he would see.

The matron who greeted Newkirk still looked harried, but her face lit up at the sight of him. "Oh, so good to see you again, sir. Do come in. Do you wish the lad?" She was actually burbling happily. "Such a good lad, polite and helpful…I'm so glad he's found a place with you, sir."

Now it was Newkirk's turn to smile. "Even better news, mum, I'm glad t' say. I found a place for me business. I'll be able t' let 'im stay there soon, so that'll be one less for ye to 'ave t' feed."

"That was quick," she said in surprise, but then she nodded knowingly. "It just goes to show, you're clearly doing the Lord's work here."

"Well, now, I don't know as I'd say _that,_ mum," Newkirk protested in embarrassment. "I'm just tryin' t' provide for me an' mine."

"Nevertheless, this is perfectly clear to _me._ But, never mind. I'll fetch the lad for you, shall I?" She scurried off before Newkirk could answer, so he just grinned and settled back to wait.

Sid warily followed the matron out to the main reception area. He was wearing his worn coat, but it wasn't yet buttoned. He still had a hard time remembering that this wasn't an orphanage, that they wouldn't just assign him to whoever _they_ felt should have his care, so he was pleasantly surprised to see… "Mr. Newkirk, sir! You came back for me!"

"'Course I come back for ye," Newkirk responded in some surprise of his own. "You said you wanted t' work for me; I wasn't about t' forget ye. I just 'ad no work for ye yesterday. There's plenty t'day, though, _and_ for a long time t' come.

"C'mon; I'll show ye the pub." He led the now goggle-eyed youth outside to the waiting car and urged him into the back seat. "Oh, yeah; Sid, this 'ere's Strobl—better make that _'Herr_ Strobl,' an' _Herr_ Hirschfeld. _Herr_ means Mister, or sir, in German. You needs t' learn German, so ye' needs t' be talkin' t' me shadows. I'm sure they'll be glad to 'elp ye learn…won't ye, men?"

«_Ja, Herr Unterfeldwebel_. We will help teach the boy,» Strobl laughed back at Newkirk. «What will you make of him? A Scholar? Or a Spy?"

«Some would say there's not much difference, except in the final Application. But start with easy Phrases, and only translate when you have to—or mix both Languages. Whatever works best; he seems to be a quick Learner.»

«_Zu Befehl, Herr Unterfeldwebel_,» Strobl acknowledged, then smiled at Sid. "That means, "I hear your orderz, Mr. Under-_feldwebel_.' But I only _said_ 'your orderz.' The rest iz implied, _versteht'?_ 'You understand?' that meanz."

"I get it," Sid said, his eyes bright and eager. Mr. Newkirk had really meant it, about training him to do as he'd done.

"Well, you can keep talkin' to 'im, but I need t' get to th' pub so's I can see what we need t' do first. I've a long way t' go before I'll be openin' for business."

_"Zu Befehl!"_ both Germans chorused and laughed with Newkirk as the car pulled away from the kerb.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

Parking was not a problem; they pulled into the mews behind the pub and parked in the rear court. Jangling the keys and feeling utterly rich, Newkirk opened the door to _his_ pub for the very first time. He really couldn't have described the feeling, now that his dream had finally become reality. "Welcome to th' Bear's Den Tavern," he said as he grandly ushered them inside. And only Strobl got the reference, but that didn't matter to Newkirk. _He_ knew why he was going to call it that, and Hogan would, too, when he eventually came to visit. Newkirk had no doubt that he _would_ come, someday; he'd promised.

And Hogan never promised something he wouldn't do.

But there was a lot of work to do before then. Dust covered the fine old mahogany bar; the windows were so dirty and covered with soot that there was barely enough light to move around safely. Newkirk had had the power turned on the previous day, before he'd gone back to find Mavis; now, even with the lights on, it was dim, for well over three-quarters of the bulbs were either burned out, or broken from the concussions of nearby bomb-blasts. It was a wonder that the window glass and the mirror behind the bar were still whole. But that was just down here. He wandered back to the rear of the place and found two closed doors leading from the pub's kitchen. One went down to the cellars, but Newkirk figured that he'd explore _that_ once he had an electric torch or a lantern to light his way. The other led to the upper floors, which was what Peter was interested in. Very dark those stairs were; there were no working lights along them. Still, he cautiously began to climb, followed by Strobl and Sid.

He found a sitting room, furnished with very old and shabby furniture, just off the first-floor landing, and a short hallway leading toward the rear of the building. The first room back was obviously meant to be a bedroom, although it was empty. Old floral-patterned wallpaper hung in peeling strips from the walls, and there was a large damp spot on the floor in front of the broken window. Newkirk wondered when anyone had even come to check on the place last. An electric light hung from the ceiling, minus its shade, although the old gas-lamp on the wall still had its globe in place.

The next door down was a large bath, with claw-foot tub and pedestal basin. The toilet had an elevated water tank, flushed by a pull-chain. The last fitting there was a large gas-fired copper water heater, which clearly supplied the bath and basin with hot water. All told, however, it would have been—cor, it _was_ bloody cold in there, without the boiler going.

It was a room which obviously had been added at some point after the original construction of the building. Most structures erected before indoor plumbing was widely available had water closets installed at a later time, a tiny room with only a toilet. If a flat in such a building had a bathtub at all, it was to be found in the kitchen. The presence of a complete bath here indicated that this must have been a very prosperous establishment at one time.

"Cor, would you look at that!" Sid breathed in awe at the room. While cramped, it was more modern than anything his parents had been able to afford. Newkirk quietly kept to himself the fact that he'd never had so much himself; Mavis' flat was way better than anything their folks had ever been able to afford.

"It'll need a good bit o' work," Peter said as he looked at all the cracked tiles and the corroded pipes. New electric would also have to be run here, or steam from the bath could cause shorting and an electrical fire. Still, it _was_ workable and most definitely worth the effort to modernize it.

He led the way down to the last room on that floor, not knowing what to expect.

The door opened onto old-fashioned elegance. The walls were covered in a faded material that Peter suspected was patterned green silk. Very heavy furniture was still there: a massive carved bed in some dark wood, tall wardrobe and chest of drawers; a chervil mirror stood in one corner, an old clothes-tree next to it, all in that same dark wood. An ornate bureau and a dressing table with its small cushioned stool stood against the opposite wall. Peter was surprised that those last two pieces had been left; they, at least, were light enough to have been carried away. Faded pictures still hung on the wall, except for one whose hanging-wire had given way. That picture sat on the floor below its nail, its glass in shards before it.

«Did they realize that all this was here, _Unterfeldwebel_?» Strobl asked, amazed at this find.

«I doubt it, but how could they _not_ have done? This Room looks like a Museum, almost.» Peter's voice was hushed, as if he feared to awaken something. Silence reigned until Sid sneezed from the dust, startling the adults into embarrassed laughter.

"Well, I think I've found _my_ room," Newkirk said, backing out and shutting the door behind them. "Let's see what's upstairs."

Another dark stairway at the front end of the hall led to the second floor, doubling back to the rear of the building, but turning to the right about halfway up. Some of the large timbers supporting the ceiling could be seen here, showing the age of the structure. Still, it was sound; the stairs didn't even creak as they climbed them.

The rooms were smaller on this floor, no doubt intended to be the nursery and children's rooms for the owner's family. These would need to be repapered or painted, as they weren't in as good shape as the lower floor. Still, they would make a pleasant flat for Mavis if she cared to move in. He nodded at the thought. There was a bath up here, also, if not quite as elaborate as the one downstairs. It should suit his sister well. And the rent wouldn't be such as to be argued over—you couldn't do much better than "free."

Newkirk led the way back down the stairs, stopping once more in the kitchens. It seemed… He went over to the other door and opened it, just to check. To his surprise, it did not let onto a set of stairs down, but to a good-sized storeroom. Puzzled now, he went in, stumbling over boxes and barking his shin on a pile of crates that clinked at the jostling. He bit back his curse of pain at the thought of what might still be here. "But where's th' cellar-access, then?" he wondered out loud; surely there would be interior access _somewhere_ here. Goods and supplies would be received outside, back in the mews—he'd seen a strong-looking door out there—but there had to be access inside as well. It was a puzzle that he'd have to solve, once he could actually _see_ in here. But until he could do better, this was where he would put a cot for Sid to sleep. They'd all eat in the kitchen. "I'm goin' t' 'ave t' find me a cook," he realized, then flushed when he realized that he'd actually said that aloud too.

"I am sure that there are many men, _und_ vomen alzo, looking _für _vork, _Herr Unterfeldwebel,"_ Strobl said as he tried to see into the room around Newkirk's back. "Thiz iz a large _Biergarten."_

"Yeah. It's bigger than I thought," Newkirk agreed absently, then went back into the common room. His eyes, now better adjusted to the gloom, could just make out another door—no, there were _two_ doors at the other side of the room, one behind the bar itself. No doubt _that_ was where the cellar-access was; it made sense. But the other…and then he knew. "That's where the private rooms are," he said, indicating the other door. "Years ago, Sid, Ladies didn't come into a pub an' mix wi' th' men; they 'ad private 'withdrawing rooms' for them. An' only in th' better old posting-'ouses. I wonder 'ow old this place _is?"_

"Kvite (quite) old, iz my gueß."

"Oh, yeah. An' now they use them rooms for illegal games an' such-like. Well, _I_ won't be doin' that. I think I'll be keepin' 'em for small private parties an' such. An' I'll be cuttin' a 'ole through that wall, there, into th' next building'."

"But why, Mr. Newkirk?" Sid was clearly puzzled. "I mean, this place is _really_ big!"

"Ah, I need _that_ 'cause I'm goin' to 'ave me a dinner-place over there. A real restaurant, but where we can 'ave a show for folks t' watch whilst they eat. So they can 'ave a real meal over there, or pub-fare over 'ere, but still get good tap-beer there. We _need_ that doorway; you'll see." Newkirk found it hard to rein in his enthusiasm now; his plans were so full and bright in his mind, now that he actually stood here.

"It vill take a lot of vork."

"There's lots o' men lookin' for work; you said it yourself."

"It vill be expenszive."

"I 'ave money, courtesy o' me Guv'nor an' General Mann'eim."

"So. You'd best get people in _hier,_ to start cleaning."

_"Jawohl, Herr Strobl,"_ Newkirk finished with a bow, causing the others to laugh. But he was right, and Newkirk was prepared. "I've an advert t' place in th' paper. Sid, d'ye know any lads like yourself? Older ones—'Ow old _are_ you, anyway?" Newkirk paused as he realized that he didn't know that crucial fact.

"I'll be sixteen next month…honest!" Sid replied, a worried look on his face.

"Easy, lad. Fifteen is fine; means you get trainin' time first. Sixteen would be best, I'm thinkin'; by seventeen, ye're too set in yer ways. Be best if they could look older, or younger, like you do. I could use birds, but I don't want people thinkin' I'm…providin' other services, like. Bar-girls in 'ere, sure, but for th' restaurant, I need to 'ave waiters. An' they need t' be trained before they start. So find me five or six good lads if ye know any. If not, I'll find 'em meself."

"I know two, Mr. Newkirk."

"Good; that's do for starters. Why don't you go find 'em an' bring 'em 'ere t' me? But you just tell 'em there's a job, wi' food an' a place t' stay wi' no preachin'. Not everyone'll be up for the rest. Right? Off ye go then, Sid."

"Right, Mr. Newkirk." Sid didn't quite salute, just touched a fingertip to his cap, then he was out the door and gone like a shot.

"'E's got 'way more energy than me, that's for sure," Newkirk said with a mournful sigh.

Strobl laughed and shook his head. "Somehow, I do not believf you."

"Hmm; you could be right, at that. But c'mon now; the mornin's wastin'. I've got th' next two buildin's t' look over still, then 'elp t' line up. Big question is, where t' start? Eh, I'll work that out, too. Just wish th' Guv'nor was 'ere; 'e'd 'ave a plan all worked out already." Newkirk paused a moment, then nodded to himself. "First'll be damage control," he announced with a chuckle. "'Ere, though, it means keepin' things from gettin' worse. An' _that_ means roofers an' glaziers. An' I 'aven't even looked up in th' garret 'ere. Cor, but I'll be spread thin."

"Ja, but you vill stay out ovf trouble; you vill not haf _time_ to get into any." Strobl was serious now, surprising Peter.

"Look, I don't _want_ any trouble. You'll be gettin' into more'n me—especially if you 'ang around me sister too much. She's a good girl, an' I don't want t' see 'er 'urt. _Versteht'?" _He looked hard at Strobl now, giving the German pause for a moment.

"I do not mean her harm, _Herr Unterfeldwebel._ She iz…very special. She haz not been properly appreciated by her superior, until now. _Herr Major_ Bachmann seez her vorth; so do I. I…vould like to see her more, zocially. _If_ she vould like to go vith me. I vill _hurt_ anyone who does her harm. _That,_ you havf my vord on." Strobl was standing at very stiff attention as he made this declaration; Newkirk could only sigh once more.

"Relax, Strobl… Artur, right? Mavis will go out with whoever _she_ wants t' do, an' there's not much I can—or _should—_do t' try an' stop 'er. She's a big girl now, an' knows 'er own mind. Just be clear on this: If you 'urt 'er, I'll kill ye. An' they'll never even find th' body. If _she_ wants ye, then that'll 'ave t' be fine. Don't know 'ow I'll feel about it, but that won't matter. As long as _she's_ 'appy."

"Ja, I think that iz so. I svear to you: I vill not hurt her."

"Right, then. Enough o' this; I've got too much work t' do. So move yer arse, _Stabsgefreiter."_

_"Zu Befehl,"_ Strobl laughed, balance restored, that minefield safely crossed.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

It was clear that the pub could be up and running long before the theater/restaurant, and it made sense to get some money coming in, if at all possible. So an electrician was sent for, and a glazier to replace all the broken panes of glass, starting on the pub's building. Electric torches were brought in from the waiting car, as well as a thoroughly-chilled Bruno. The Germans would have lighted fires in the ground-floor fireplaces, but Newkirk stopped them. Until a chimney-sweep could be brought in to examine and clean the flues, there was too great a risk of a blocked chimney, so they would have to wait. The last thing Peter wanted was a chimney-fire; even smoke-filled rooms from poor updraft was not to be desired. And, while the rooms were cold, Bruno declared that he was warmer here than in the car, so he could cope now. He would warm up even more, moving around to explore. So, armed with the torches, the three men descended into the cellar.

At the end of an hour, Newkirk had come to two conclusions. The first was that the former owner's widow was an idiot, and lazy to boot, and therefore deserved what she got—or, rather, _didn't_ get, in this case. The second conclusion was that the former owner had been a hoarder second to none, for the cellar was full of cases of liquor and canned goods, many of them brands that had not been available since the start of the war. Newkirk knew he could be in deep trouble; if word of this spread, the rats from London's underbelly would descend on this place and strip it bare, most likely killing him in the process. He would have to be extremely careful who he hired.

The two Germans were awestruck by the abundance in that cellar, and Newkirk worried anew. Suddenly, Strobl turned to Hirschfeld with a glare. «You will _not_ say _anything_ about this, to _anyone._ It would cause a Riot. Do you understand me? You will not try to blackmail the _Unterfeldwebel__,_ either, for that would be committing Suicide. He has a Patron high in Abwehr…unless you _want_ to go fight in Russia?» he threatened in a low voice.

The growing look of avarice that had started in Hirschfeld's eyes died suddenly at that. «N-no, _Herr Stabsgefreiter_,» he stammered fearfully, glancing quickly at Newkirk.

«Keep your Mouth shut about all this,» Strobl continued just as strongly, «and _maybe_ _Herr_ Newkirk will remember you kindly. You do _not_ want him angry with you; trust me on that. For if you threaten him, it is _Anger_ you will generate in him, not Fear. Push him too far and… You do _not_ want the Consequences.»

«No, _Herr Stabsgefreiter_; I will say nothing, not even to our _Oberleutnant_.» He started looking sly again as he said that.

«I believe that _Major_ Bachman outranks your _Oberleutnant_,» Peter cut in before this could escalate. «I doubt he'd hesitate to take him down any more than he did Leftenant Harrow.»

Hirschfeld turned absolutely white at that and said no more, making Newkirk wonder , very briefly, just what _had_ happened to Harrow.

They were heading up the stairs from the cellar when Newkirk heard the knocking at the back door. He approached cautiously, Strobl at his back, not relaxing even when he thought he heard Sid's voice. The door had a peephole; he glanced out and saw Sid standing back a little way, talking to two other youths. At a wave, Strobl stepped back and to one side, providing cover as Newkirk opened the door.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

They had to go somewhere else for lunch, but that was fine by Newkirk. In his opinion, he'd made a good start on his new espionage crew, even though they'd be "just" trainees. The boys all were eager to learn and seemed to be bright lads; they would do very well.

He was less pleased with the workmen sent over to start clearing the debris out of the two buildings besides the tavern. They were shifty and lazy and had to be watched constantly, or they'd just stop working. He'd had enough long before he heard the muttering against "slave-driving rich toffs." To Newkirk, that was the final straw. One made the mistake of threatening him when they were fired from the job; he found himself in handcuffs, arrested as a Communist agitator, after Newkirk got done with him.

"Stupid blighters don't know when they've got it good," Newkirk grumbled as he looked at what little had been accomplished.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

"I needs some lads what knows 'ow t' follow orders," he complained to the employment agency about an hour later.

"I _am_ sorry, Mr. Newkirk, but, to be fair, we are required to send you the next names on our list," the officious manager began. "We cannot just pick and choose…"

"Like bloody 'ell I can't," Newkirk responded, sick of this. "If you blokes can't send me workers as will _work,_ I'll find me own."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't do that; they must have the appropriate work authorizations, and you can only get _those _here," the man sounded anything but sorry as he simpered at this lower-class upstart, until Strobl stepped forward, his identification in his hand.

"I believf that _you_ vill be coming vith _me;_ you vill havf some Questions to answer," he announced in satisfaction. "Ve had vondered _vhere_ these Vorkers vere getting these illegal Documents."

"But…but…"

"Be silent, _Schwein,_ or I vill gag you!" Strobl snapped in disgust as he locked handcuffs on the now-blubbering bureaucrat.

"Gently, _Herr Stabsgefreiter,"_ Newkirk cautioned. "You're supposed t' be keepin' a low profile 'ere, remember?"

"I _am_ being gentle, _Herr _Newkirk," Strobl replied as he started pushing the man towards the door, other employees watching in shock. "He still haß all his teeth, _Ja?"_

"Mmm, there _is_ that, mate," Newkirk laughed as he followed them outside. "There is that."

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

Sid and his mates watched Newkirk warily as the corporal—or whatever he was now—leaned against the corner of the building they were currently standing near. He had stormed out of the employment services building in a right tiff, stalking down the street with such a black look on his face that other people quickly stepped out of his way, including the German soldiers that they passed. He covered four blocks that way, not really seeing where he was going, before he ran out of steam. "Imagine," he huffed in irritation to Sid, "them blokes takin' _me_ for a toff. Lazy rotters."

"What ye gonna do now, Mr, Newkirk?" the boy that Newkirk thought was called Hal asked, although he carefully stayed out of arm's reach of his new employer.

Peter leaned his head up against the building, looking up at the darkening sky. Finally, he sighed and shook himself, like a dog shaking off unwanted rain. "I'm gonna find workers meself, is what I'm goin' t' do. I'm lookin' in the wrong place—or I _was—_for th' men I want. C'mon; I know where I need t' go… Where _are_ we, anyway?" He looked up and down the street as he asked, trying to place his location. The street signs, which had been taken down years before in case of invasion, had not yet been replaced throughout most of London, so even long-time residents could get lost in less-familiar surroundings. And Peter had been gone a long time; London had been radically changed by the Blitz in 1940.

Alfie, the third youth, knew where they were; once he told Newkirk, it didn't take long to arrive at the nearest local police station. The boys looked at this in puzzlement; why would their employer need the police? But they followed Peter inside willingly enough, having relatively clear consciences at the moment.

Newkirk marched right up to the duty sergeant as if he did this all the time. The German military policeman who sat at a nearby desk didn't worry him in the least.

"Officer," he began politely enough, but not masking his accent, "d' ye 'ave any Yanks in 'ere as vagrants? I need me some workers, so I though I'd solve two problems at once: yours, an' mine."

"Do we look like a listings agency to you?" the sergeant sneered, getting all huffy at Newkirk's gall; the German looked over attentively, but kept his silence.

"No. That's why I'm 'ere. Th' 'listin' agency,' as _you_ put it, tried t' slough off their scum on me. So I came where I might find some men as can't get any work elsewhere. You got any?"

"There are some here, in 'lockup.' The voice was cultured, but the slightest hint of a German accent crept through. "What sort of work do you need done? And who, exactly, are you?"

Ah, yes, the joys of dealing with Officialdom. Newkirk turned his attention to the man who was clearly in charge here, a _Leutnant._ He switched languages with practiced ease, causing the bobby's eyes to try to pop out of his head. «I need general Labor first, _Herr Leutnant_,» he began, keeping his frustrated sigh to himself. «I have some Buildings that I need cleared of Rubble; Roofs to be patched. That type of Work.»

The German pursed his lips in consideration, tapping steepled fingers against them lightly. "You have Authorization for this Work?"

"I 'aven't been told I can't 'ave it done," Newkirk countered, trying to keep the challenge out of his voice, and failing.

"Let me see your papers," the inevitable order came, a demanding hand held out to receive them.

"Good thing ye're sittin' down, mate," Newkirk muttered under his breath with a quiet laugh as he handed them over without hesitation. He knew just when the Kraut reached Mannheim's name, for the pale eyebrows shot up toward the neatly trimmed hair. Pale eyes jerked up to look at the Cockney in shock; Newkirk just smiled jauntily at him. "Now, about those men…?"

"This way, _Unterfeldwebel_," the German said, rising from his desk and gesturing toward the holding cells. The bobby could only watch in utter disbelief, tinged with concern for his own survival…and comfort.

They were out of sight in a short corridor when the German spun Peter around and slammed him against the wall. "Prove it," he snarled softly, his Luger pressed into Newkirk's abdomen.

"Sure thing, _Herr Leutnant,"_ Newkirk answered, his tone light, although he was far from happy right then. Cautiously he shifted, not trying to evade his escort, until he could push his sleeve up to reveal his tattoo. "I'd ha' showed you this upstairs if you'd asked; me 'andler is _Major_ Bachmann. 'E's _Abwehr_ and 'as me original papers."

"I…did not want to expose you," the _Leutnant_ admitted uneasily as he backed away from Newkirk.

"Expose… Mate, I'm just what me papers say I am; _I'm_ _not _a Jerry agent. Just the opposite, in fact. Blew up me share o' ammo trains an' such in Germany, durin' th' war. That's over now; we lost, an' I'm not fightin' you anymore. I've me reasons, but that don't change th' facts none. Now, I'm a good boy—or as close as _I'll_ ever be t' one."

"You are not meeting a contact, picked up by accident?"

"Sorry, sir; strange as it'd seem t' those as knew me in the old days, I've told you th' god's honest truth. I just want men as is willin' t' _work;_ I seen in the camps Yanks were good, 'ard workers. Not many will 'ire 'em right now, so's they get kicked out o' their digs an' end up 'ere, or worse."

"You say you are under _Abwehr_ supervision?" the _Leutnant _pressed, and Peter suddenly realized his mistake.

"Cor! Me shadows 'ad some Commie agitators t' run in, _Herr Leutnant;_ they think I'm at that ruddy employment place. Can I call in t' th' major at Records? I _don't_ want 'im thinkin' that I'm trying' t' lose 'is lads. That bloke as run th' place just made me so mad, I left without thinkin'—got meself good an' lost, too. One o' th' lads with me told me where we were, so we came 'ere, this bein' the closest place as might 'ave what I need."

The _Leutnant_ stared at Newkirk a moment, then laughed quietly. "No, you are no agent. You act without thinking and would have been killed long before now. Pick your men, then call your keeper. Will I need to provide you a security escort also, to get you returned?"

Newkirk chuckled also as he hung his head in mock humiliation. His ego could take the hit, if this Kraut thought him less dangerous for it. "Nah; I plans on goin' back t' me new place with me workers, so's I can get started. I bought me a pub, y' see—a _Hofbrau._ It'll be called th' Bear's Den, an' I'm 'opin' t' get in some good German beer. Developed a taste for it durin' th' war; can't 'ardly drink what they serve 'ere, now."

"German beer? Where did you get that? I did not know that POWs were given beer."

"We weren't. Look, _Herr Leutnant,_ it's a _real_ long story," Newkirk said with a sigh. "Keep an eye out for me openin' an' come by. I'll tell you th' tale then. But I'll 'ave German beer, an' maybe even French wine. Come see me; only ones not welcome there will be th' Commies.

"Now, where's these men you got?"

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

They had the expected assortment of beggars, pickpockets, and drunks, but, for Newkirk, the treasure was three American-born military men. One had been an aircraft mechanic; he knew some electronics. The other two had been infantry, back in England from North Africa due to injuries. They had been slated to go back to the fighting just before the war ended; their transfers had been held up, then they were abruptly discharged. They'd been given their final pay, but that hadn't lasted long. Resentment against the English? Oh, yeah; they had _that,_ in spades. _Stupid wonkers in high command,_ Newkirk though angrily as he led the way through the late afternoon drizzle back to the pub.

The black sedan was parked in back. Newkirk couldn't see anyone, but he heard voices arguing loudly inside. With a sigh, he pushed open the now-unlocked back door, prepared to do battle.

"The owner vants all the broken vindow glaß in thiz building to be replazed; I havf told you thiz already," Strobl could be heard, his patience clearly nearing its end.

"Yes; well, I need to have this directly from the owner," a voice with an upcountry accent insisted as Peter entered the kitchen. Both men turned to see who'd come; Strobl looked relieved.

"All right, then," Newkirk said without pause. "You 'ave it. I want all th' broken glass in this building replaced. An' I needs it done by tomorrow night. Then you can start on th' next two buildin's; they're mine, too."

_"You're _the owner?" the workman demanded, doubt clear on his face.

"That's right; I'm the owner. I bought th' property yesterday." Newkirk waited to see what reaction this would bring and was not pleased with the response.

"You'll have to find someone else," the man said disdainfully. "I'll have no truck with collaborators."

_"What?!"_ Newkirk gasped, his temper rising. "See 'ere, you ruddy berk. I served me time in th' war an' risked me neck daily even after I was shot down. Who the 'ell d' ye think you are, callin' _me_ a collaborator?" Only Strobl's grabbing him kept Newkirk from pounding the little glazier into the wall.

"_Herr_ Newkirk, no!" Strobl said, his voice low and urgent. "You cannot—What would your Colonel Hogan say if you attacked a civilian? The man is clearly unable to fight you. Newkirk, stop this, before I have to call _unser Major!"_

The glazier watched this with wide, frightened eyes, shocked by the corporal's reaction. He reminded Newkirk of Hasenpfeffer, the rabbit that Carter had caught in his "gonculator."(1) With a sigh, Peter stopped fighting his guard.

But Strobl wasn't done yet, either. He turned an angry face to the diminutive craftsman. _"You_ vill do the vork you vere sent here to do. Thiz man iz a hero, not a collaborator. _You_ are lucky that ve vere here to vatch him, or he might havf killed you. You vill do the vork, or _I_ will see that your lizenze iz revoked, _und_ you vill not find any other vork in thiz country. Iz that clear?"

"Yeah, that's clear enough," the man answered with great reluctance, carefully withholding his normal curses about the Germans. Slowly, he moved sideways along the wall until he was well away from the irate Cockney, then headed out to his truck to fetch his tools and start the job.

"Bloody 'ell!" Newkirk cursed, collapsing on a handy crate. "The war's over, an' I'm 'havin' more of a fight 'ere at 'ome than I did in Germany! 'As everyone gone mad?"

«They did not expect to lose, _Unterfeldwebel_. They are still trying to adjust to… ah, yes. 'The sound ovf Jackbootz marching through their Streetz.' And they do not understand what you and your _Kameraden_ did and went through. Try to be patient with them, _ja_?»

Newkirk looked at him and laughed bitterly. "Who'd 'a' thought? German Intelligence bein' the voice o' reason. No; I'm okay now. I won't try t' tear th' little rotter apart. Let me go see me new men t' work. Oh, yeah; sorry about losin' you back there; it's been a bad day, an' I lost me temper a mite. Just stormed out without thinkin'."

"It is fine, _Herr _Newkirk," Strobl reassured him. "_Major_ Bachmann did not think you ver running. _Ve_ vill be rid ovf Hirschfeld, though. _He_ called the _Major_ and vas pulled from thiz duty." He paused and laughed at the memory. "You should havf seen hiz face vhen _unser Major_ vas finished vith him, _und_ that vas only ovfer the phone. He vas lucky, I think, that they vere not in the same room."

"Good. I was gonna ask to 'ave 'im replaced," Newkirk confided. "I didn't like th' way 'e was lookin', down in th' cellar."

"Neither did I. _That_ iz vhy he iz gone. He iz being reassigned to Franze. But go; set your men to vork. Ve can talk later.

"_Und_ vhat can I do?" Strobl surprised Newkirk by asking. "I muzt be _hier_ anyvay; I may az vell help."

"You're right, an' you can always say 'no,' can't ye? All right; why don't you an' me start cleanin' up this kitchen? That way it'll be ready, once I find me a cook…_and_ some food."

1- Klink Vs. the Gonculator (4:2)


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

He'd tried for a Christmas opening, but there was just too much that needed to be done. He'd learned from his experience with the glazier and had military inspectors come in to check the wiring and plumbing. As he'd feared, all four buildings had to be completely rewired. Most of the plumbing was still sound in the two newer buildings, and their coal heaters worked safely, but the old pub needed all new plumbing. He had a coal furnace installed in the cellar and steam heat run up to the two upper floors. _That_ took some…_interesting_ routing for the pipes, but they managed the job without leaving an unsightly mess. The pub's common room and private parlors had gas-logs installed in their fireplaces, as much for ambience as anything. London was so built up now that open log fires were no longer a good idea.

He was resigned to the fact that they wouldn't be open in time for New Year's Eve. While Newkirk still knew a lot of people and had a good bit of stock on hand already, he'd learned, one summer, just how much beer and alcohol a really good pub could go through in a week. He had to establish his lines of supply, for he could easily go dry in a week if he weren't ready. So he sent out feelers to suppliers and shippers and held his breath.

Within a week, he realized that _someone_ was greasing the skids for him. His operating license and liquor license came through in forty-eight hours, instead of the one to two weeks he'd heard. The import license took little longer. And so, on January 8, Newkirk's first shipment of German beer—Löwenstein—arrived in huge casks, on German military transport trucks. Two brands of Irish beer in bottles and some cases of Irish whiskey had been delivered at the beginning of the week. Single malt scotch was still hard to come by, but he felt that he had a solid lead on that, as well. The French cognac and the Schnapps were surprisingly inexpensive, too. In fact, the hardest thing for him to locate was a source of English ale. _Other_ pubs could get it with seeming ease, but not Newkirk. Finally he sighed and decided not to worry about it. He would still get custom, and probably more than the others, for he had discovered that the really good liquor didn't cost all that much more than the cheap stuff. So he went for quality and knew that word would spread, and the customers _would_ come.

Even the food would be good. He'd had the kitchen gutted, since it had to be rewired anyway. Now new, modern appliances gleamed in the clean, well-lit workspace. A service corridor had been added, leading to the private rooms; he figured on using one for a dining room if Mavis took rooms upstairs.

Surprisingly, that had not been decided yet. Work there was going very slowly, as most of the effort was directed towards the business itself.

And progress _was_ being made, very rapidly. He'd brought home three men in mid-December to start the work, and word had spread from there. The rewiring was done by American and British men from former engineering battalions, as was the plumbing. Soldiers who'd done carpentry work before the war came looking for work; painters came, and even a brick-layer. In fact, that was how he got his cooks, two for the restaurant-to-be, and two American short-order cooks for the pub. One reminded Newkirk a lot of Kinch, which made him miss all the gang terribly, but it was just the fact that he, too, was a Negro. Willie Baxter laughed at everything, when he wasn't humming Gospel tunes. And cor, could that man cook! It was all simple stuff that LeBeau would have turned up his French nose at, but it was good pub-fare. He had a knack for picking up recipes, too, so they would be able to offer food familiar to several nationalities, not just British favorites. Earl Carver, the relief cook, was nearly as good, so he was set in the kitchen.

He'd found bartenders and had been able to be quite choosy there. After turning away five men, he'd found three that he liked the looks of, with good references. Four girls would rotate their days to cover the tables at lunch and at night; his laddies, for now, would cover the afternoon and evening shifts.

They had been training hard these last four weeks, and he was quite proud of all of them. He'd taught them how to serve at table properly, how to take orders, and how to remember who got what. _That_ was one of the harder parts to learn, but they'd all worked really hard. Most could even understand some German now, as well. The French would take longer. But most importantly, they could now recognize "shifty" behavior and could pick out "strange" languages, even if they couldn't understand what was being said. They would improve with time and learn more languages also—he was trying to find someone he trusted who spoke Russian and Greek—but a good start had been made.

To Newkirk's great surprise, supplies for the kitchen had been the easiest to procure. Now, larder stocked, he was finally ready to open. Tomorrow, Saturday, would be a big day, one never to forget.

They would open at noon and expected quite a crowd. Many people had stopped by while they'd been working on the place, inquiring as to the opening date. Newkirk could only hope that the restaurant sparked as much interest. Now that the pub was, for all intents and purposes, operational, he could concentrate on the next project: his dinner theater.

But first he and Mavis would have one last quiet "family" dinner before all the excitement—and problems—started. At that thought, he gritted his teeth. Mavis would come tonight, yes—on Strobl's arm. He had hoped… but, no.

Bachmann had never replaced Hirschfeld when the _Gefreiter_ had been transferred to France; he'd cut all the escorting agents down to one man instead of teams of two. After two more weeks, he eliminated the routine shadowing, only spot-checking every few days on an irregular basis. But Strobl was serious about seeing Mavis and took every opportunity to meet her. _She_ seemed amused by his attention at first, then intrigued. So now, when they were off duty, they were as likely to be found together as not. Peter had to make the best of it, for Mavis would do as she pleased; she _was_ his sister, after all.

Shaking his head, Peter headed in to set the table. There _would_ be fraternization between the English and the occupying Germans, there always was in such situations despite regulations to the contrary. He only hoped that Mavis didn't get hurt for seeing Artur. The _Abwehr_ man seemed like a decent sort, for a Kraut. Again, Peter shook his head, trying to rid himself of all such derogatory thoughts. If he slipped up and sneered at Strobl, it would only hurt Mavis, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. And, really, Strobl wasn't all that bad. For a Jerry.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

Dinner went well, a quiet meal, followed by music on the radio and friendly conversation. As the evening progressed, though, Peter sensed that his sister had something on her mind. He could tell when she finally made the decision to say something to him; he dreaded what the subject might be.

"Peter," Mavis started uncertainly, "you know you offered me rooms here, over the pub with you. That was very kind, and I do appreciate the offer…"

"It's okay if you don't want t' move in wi' me, Mavis," Newkirk cut in quickly, hiding his hurt feelings, for he knew she was refusing.

"It's not quite that, Peter," she continued doggedly. "I'd love to be near you, but not quite _that_ close. We'd get on each other's nerves too badly after a bit. But you're putting flats in over the restaurant. If you don't mind, I think I'd prefer one of those. I'd still be close, but we'd each be able to have our privacy and freedom."

"An' what'll I do wi' all these rooms of me own?" he demanded, trying to sound hurt, even though he was secretly pleased by this proposed arrangement.

"Vhy don't you put some of your lads up there?" Strobl suggested, much to Newkirk's surprise. "The younger ones; the older vill do us more good roomed elsewhere."

"I _was_ goin' t' make a dorm for them , over th' theater," Newkirk said, wondering how much he'd actually said in front of Strobl.

"You can still do that," Mavis said, grinning now. "Put the lads on the floor above me, and room your young ladies on my floor. I can keep half an eye on them that way, and I'll be there to explain the things that the girls need to know and to be a shoulder to cry on for them. I don't mind doing that."

"You vill havf more privacy that vay, both of you."

Oh, yes, privacy was good, especially after living for so many years in each other's pockets at Stalag XIII. He'd already moved into his rooms upstairs; as soon as the heat had been working, he'd given Bachmann notice of his intention to move. "You both 'ave good points," he acknowledged with a mischievous grin. "So. Soon as possible, Mavis, we needs t' go over th' buildin' plans so we can 'ave your new flat fixed up. I'll put th' birds on your floor, but I think I'll put small flats on th' two floors above ye. Th' boys' dorm can go in th' _next_ buildin', on th' first floor. It's a tad bigger, an' I'm wantin' some space b'tween them an' th' girls. Me cooks can 'ave flats on th' ground floor if they want 'em; I know that Baxter an' Carver both need someplace t' stay."

"This sounds _gut,_ but I fear I must interrupt," Strobl said, rising. "I havf duty tomorrow, and _Fräulein_ Mavis must be back at her flat. She is already out vay past curfew."

"Cor, is it that late already?!" Peter was surprised that time had gone by so fast. "Mavis, luv, I'll see _you_ t'morrow. Strobl…No. _Artur,_ I'm glad ye came. Ye know you're welcome 'ere anytime, right?"

"I thank you very much…Peter. It vas an enchoyable evfening. _Auf wiedersehen."_

And to his surprise, Newkirk found that he'd meant that open invitation to the German. What a surprise.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

The Bear's Den opened without a hitch and was seemingly an instant hit. Granted there was not much else in the area, but the clientele was definitely of better character than one would expect to find in such a neighborhood. Still, the upscale patrons brought more security patrols to the area, which made it seem even safer, and brought even more customers. By the beginning of February, they had finished the floors above the theater and were about halfway through with the ones in Newkirk's last building. He already had a waiting list for the eight available flats in Mavis' building and was starting one for the twelve units on the last building's upper two floors.

Newkirk was being very picky about who he'd consider for those flats. He didn't want trouble, and he didn't want anyone there who might be a counter-spy. Since he could pick and choose, though, he decided that he'd prefer to have ex-military there, for their skills and as additional security for Mavis. But since there would be lots of Germans around, he would also need level heads. He especially didn't want one of his tenants jumping Strobl just because he was seeing Mavis.

And he thought life had been complicated as a POW. Ha! Now he knew what Colonel Hogan had gone through, especially with LeBeau and his fiery temper. But that thought led to another, and suddenly he knew what types of people he wanted living in his flats: forgers, tailors, electronics men—everyone he'd need to have a self-contained operation. And since they were doing construction, now would be the time to build in hidden storage and work rooms. No one would notice anything amiss, including the Germans who still came by every now and then. With a lopsided grin, Newkirk headed into his office to study the blueprints of his buildings.

—**o-o-O-o-o—**

On March 1, the dinner-theater opened its doors for the first time. Newkirk had found a good pianist for light background music between acts. He'd found a good juggler, and had Malcolm Flood(1) do an escape act, though not as complicated as Houdini's. And he, Newkirk, did some of his magic tricks and sleight-of-hand for the amusement of his patrons; his young men were perfectly trained waiters.

There were complimentary reviews in the next day's papers; apparently they had been waiting for him to open, their curiosity piqued by the pub. He wasn't complaining; this drew even more customers. English, Americans, and Germans mingled together in seeming harmony. _He_ was busier than a one-armed paper-hanger, between managing the businesses and doing two shows a night.

Newkirk was happy; this was what he'd wanted to do for most of his life. All he needed now was to see Hogan again, to see for himself that his Guv'nor was also doing well. That would come in time, he hoped; until then, he would keep busy as he waited, and would see what damage he could do to the Communists who wanted to take over his country.

_This_ Bear's Cub had not given up the fight, not by a long shot. That was not the English way, and he was a true Son of Olde England.

**_Ende_**


End file.
